


Rewriting History

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Past Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Post-Game(s), Rebuilding Fodlan, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 88,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: In the aftermath of the destruction of the Adrestian Empire, Byleth and Dimitri are determined to build a new Fódlan based on the values that they both hold dear. The Church of Seiros and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus vow to work together to create an equal and just society for all people regardless of their origin.However, the scars left by war run deep, marring the souls of their friends, family and land. The prejudices and divisions created by long years of conflict are not mended quickly, and grudges are not forgotten. Threats to peace linger in the shadows. And Byleth and Dimitri quickly learn that their personal desires must run second to what is good for the people.An exploration of the events following the fall of the Adrestian Empire, in which Byleth and Dimitri must submit to the demands of their advisors and positions rather than the wishes of their hearts.





	1. Ingrid

**Author's Note:**

> This story will focus on events after Edelgard's defeat at the end of the Blue Lions route. It will explore the difficulties of changing Fódlan against a romance between Dimitri and Byleth.
> 
> It will be a longer fic with many relationships, tags of which will be added as the story progresses.

**I: Enbarr, the Imperial Capital | Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1186**  
**Morning**

Looking out across the city of Enbarr, Sylvain tried to conjure the sensations of battle rage. He knew fighting was something that came naturally to Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid, but Sylvain always struggled to summon the apathy that allowed him to erase the humanity of people at the end of his lance. He would rather talk his way out of a situation than put it to a battle of strength and hurt others.

In attempt to speed the process along, Sylvain studied the layout of Enbarr’s streets, visible from top of the hill where they waited. The city was nestled in a valley, embraced by two rivers, grown into a twisting labyrinth due to the limits of its geography. This put the Kingdom army at a clear disadvantage. Most of them had limited knowledge of the city, whereas the army they faced was intimate with all its nooks and crannies. If Kingdom soldiers found themselves backed into a corner, they would be unable to escape.

“Hey.”

The voice drew Sylvain away from his study, soothed his growing disinterest entirely. Because as Ingrid guided her pegasus down to the empty place beside Sylvain’s horse, all he could think was how stunning she looked, even in armour. Although it was partly driven by memory. Her hair was carefully and tightly braided back for the battle, two blue ribbons falling from behind her ears, but Sylvain remembered how it had looked the previous night, loose around her shoulders when she found him by the fire, catching the light of moon and shimmering like gold.

“Sylvain, stop it.”

Ingrid’s words halted Sylvain’s reminiscences just before they got good. But when he saw she was blushing, he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. She was thinking about the kiss—what had followed the kiss—too.

“I just wanted to say,” Ingrid said, “be careful out there.”

“Showing concern for me in public? Geez, I’m touched, Ingrid,” Sylvain said. “But honestly, when am I not careful?”

Ingrid exhaled, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, let me try to think of an example,” she said.

Sylvain laughed. It earned a small smile from Ingrid, before she looked away from him and patted her pegasus’s neck. With that small hesitation, Sylvain felt the mood shift. Sensed her nervousness. It was catching, and Sylvain found himself feeling a little nauseous at having to wait for her to speak. Him, anxious. Over a girl.

“I was thinking,” Ingrid said. She paused to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “After this is over, perhaps I could speak to my father. It’s about time. I think he would welcome the news. And we could start discussions.”

Sylvain felt a spark of panic and bliss, rolled into one. He didn’t dare hope, yet he did.

“Discussions?” he prompted.

When Ingrid finally looked back at Sylvain, he thought he would die in the green of her eyes. In them he saw all of her uncertainty and fear, but more than that, her hope. Her love.

Seiros.

He wondered if she knew how strange this was for him, and if it was just as strange for her. But at the same time, there was nothing more natural. There never had been.

“If you do want to marry me,” Ingrid said finally.

Sylvain reached out to her. She hesitated. He waved his hand about, impatient. And she surrendered.

Sylvain wrapped his fingers around her tiny hand. He could feel the callouses on her palm, from wielding her spear. They represented all of her hard work, all the ways in which she had fought to become who she was. It put him to shame, when he thought about it.

“Nothing in the world would make me happier, fair maiden,” Sylvain said.

Ingrid smiled, then looked away as though embarrassed.

“What?” Sylvain demanded.

“Nothing,” Ingrid said quickly. “I just…”

“Don’t tell me you actually…”

Sylvain was interrupted by the sound of the horn. Ingrid looked down the line of the army.

“It’s time,” she said.

Sylvain squeezed her hand. “Stay safe,” he said.

Ingrid leaned towards him, lifting herself slightly off her saddle so that she could kiss his cheek.

“I’ll see you after our victory,” she said.

Sylvain watched her as she took to the sky, wondering how he had been so lucky.

“Time to focus.”

Felix’s voice was gruff as he stepped up beside Sylvain. The sword master rolled his shoulders as he stared at the gates of Enbarr.

“Congratulations, though,” he added.

Sylvain grinned as he heard the battle roar catch along the line.

“You never know, Felix,” Sylvain said, renewing his grip on his lance. “Get through this and I’ll find you someone just as lovely as her. You’ll need a duchess.”

“Keep your infuriating meddling to yourself,” Felix said as they began the charge.

**II: Afternoon**

Enbarr was standing its ground. The Imperial army struck in waves from all directions. Even though Dimitri had asked them to refrain from killing whenever possible, Sylvain knew that he had left a pile of corpses behind him. Felix even more. The grim truth settled in Sylvain’s mind: the onslaught would not end until Dimitri and Byleth managed to breach the throne room and defeat Edelgard. Until then, he and Felix would be left stranded here, holding the line.

In a brief pause, Sylvain reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, lest it drip into his eyes and blind him. The action drew his eyes towards the sky. He saw Ingrid there, a shining white blot against the red reflection of the fires that burned on the outskirts of the city. She swooped down towards the ground, her spear glinting.

The next moment another surge of Imperial soldiers was upon them. Sylvain urged his horse forward. He thrust his lance into the crowd, heard the cry of a man he had skewered, pulled the lance back and lifted it high.

His horse screamed below him. Sylvain was thrown to the side and then he was falling. He dropped his lance as he flung his hands out, the earth rushing up at him.

“Sylvain!”

Felix’s boots danced in front of Sylvain and he heard blades clashing.

“Get up! You’ve got a wedding to attend, you can’t die here!”

Sylvain scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. He and Felix were surrounded by seven Imperial soldiers. Their captain, identified by the badge on his armour, strode towards Sylvain’s horse, who lay crippled on the ground. Sylvain winced as the captain lifted his spear and shoved it into the horse’s heart.

“I think we caught some genuine Faerghus nobles,” the captain said.

Sylvain snorted. “And here we have some genuine Imperial pigs,” he replied, as Felix kicked Sylvain’s foot left. Telling him which way to go.

The Imperial captain raised his spear. “You nobles are all the same. Putting on airs and importance. That’s why we will fight to the death for the emperor. She understands that you all must be put down. We will defend Enbarr!”

Sylvain raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, good luck with that.”

Sylvain threw himself at the captain at the same moment Felix attacked in the opposite direction. The captain parried with his spear, but Sylvain drew on the power embedded in his blood and swung his sword with the might of his Crest behind it. The man’s lance snapped in two. He was left staring at the pieces in confusion as Sylvain plunged the blade into his chest.

A scream echoed through the air, a voice Sylvain recognised.

“Ingrid,” he breathed as he yanked back his sword, pushed the dead man away.

As the other soldiers attacked, the cry was driven to the back of Sylvain’s mind. He and Felix were still outnumbered. Letting worry distract him would spell death. He could think about it after, when these clumsy soldiers were dealt with.

That moment came at length and all at once, when Sylvain suddenly found himself without an opponent, both hands wrapped around the grip of his sword, and puffing with exertion. The bodies of the Adrestian soldiers were littered around the street, twisted and bleeding. These reinforcements had been poorly trained, pure numbers. The Empire was reaching the dregs of its reserves. Thank the goddess. Because a few feet away, even Felix, the strongest warrior in the entire Kingdom army, looked worse for wear. He held his sword in his right hand, tip pointed at the cobblestones as its weight tugged him towards the ground. And now they had to rally again, because—

“Ingrid,” Felix gasped. “That way.”

Sylvain ran.

Stray Adrestian soldiers slowed him down, as did civilians who had elected not to evacuate. They defended their city by throwing all manner of objects at Sylvain as he passed. Every single one of them infuriated him. Every single one of them was preventing him from reaching her.

Finally, Sylvain broke free of the streets and into a city square. Straight into a battleground, where Imperial soldiers had gained the upper hand. Here, Kingdom soldiers lay dead on the ground. The sight was disturbing—was it possible they would lose this fight?

Sylvain skidded to a stop as the victors of this skirmish, four Imperial soldiers, turned towards him. But they held back. Sylvain was confused until he spotted their commander, identified by the black stripes on his red uniform, bleeding out on the ground. They were unsure, untrained, like the soldiers Sylvain had just slaughtered. Still, he wasn’t certain he could take them all as well, exhausted as he was.

As though the thought had summoned back-up, Sylvain sensed Felix’s steady presence beside him.

“Sylvain, we…”

The rest of Felix’s words were just noise as Sylvain saw Ingrid. She lay prone on the ground, blood staining the white and green of her armour. She was not moving.

“Sylvain!” Felix shouted.

Sylvain screeched in counterpoint as he flew at the remaining Imperials. One of them turned and ran, while the others stumbled about in surprise, awkwardly reaching for their weapons. Sylvain brought his blade down at the head of the one closest, his Crest lighting a fire in his veins. The man’s helmet cracked open, and he was no more.

In the next moments, all Sylvain knew was the swing of his blade, the pain in his body, and the searing of his Crest. He did not regain his senses until three corpses were piled at his feet. Then he smelled their terror, saw the blood dripping from his hands. The magic faded, and Sylvain dropped his sword.

Felix stood in the same place Sylvain had left him. There was something in his eyes that Sylvain had never seen before—at least not directed at him. Awe. But there was no time to enjoy it.

The cacophony of the battle faded against a roaring in Sylvain’s ears as he rushed across the square. He fell to his knees, his armour scrapping against the cobblestones, and scooped Ingrid up in his arms.

But it was not Ingrid. It was merely her body. Her eyes stared at the sky, empty of life and expression. Her arm, that tiny hand that had held his mere hours before, slipped from where it rested on her body and bounced as it hit the ground.

“Ingrid, no,” Sylvain begged, pulling her into his lap. He held her tight against him. Her arms did not move to return the gesture. Sylvain pressed his face against the soft skin of her neck, the anguish rising up within him.

“Sothis, no,” he sobbed. “Not her. Please, not her!”

A hand rested on Sylvain’s shoulder. He drew back a little and saw Felix kneeling beside him.

“It’s over,” Felix said.

And it was. As the sound of bells rained down on Enbarr, signalling the Empire’s surrender, Sylvain wept, while Felix reached out and gently closed Ingrid’s eyes.

**III: The Ancestral Home of Gautier | Red Wolf Moon, Year 1187**  
**Dawn**

Sylvain opened his eyes. He could tell immediately from the shadows in the coffers of the ceiling that it was just past dawn. A fire burned in the hearth opposite his bed, chasing away the early chill of the Red Wolf Moon. The ash boy had already been.

Sylvain turned his head. A naked woman lay beside him, her dark hair stark against the smooth, pale skin of her shoulders and back. Camille. From the sounds of her breathing, she was still fast asleep. Probably enjoying the warmth afforded by a bed in the Gautier house. Goddess knew all other places in the territory were freezing cold all year round.

With a sigh, Sylvain turned his face back towards the ceiling and covered his eyes with his arm.

He had dreamed about her again. About that day, that horrible day, that day he wished he could talk out of existence in the same way he talked these random women out of his life. But all the alcohol, all the indulgence, all the affairs could not remove that moment from time.

A sharp knock echoed through the room. Camille startled awake, her body tensing beside him. Sylvain reached out and rested his hand on her arm. She was so soft, so welcoming. But in the end none of it helped.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Don’t panic, it’s just breakfast.”

As Sylvain sat up, Camille rolled over to look at him. He was just as captivated by her large, green eyes as he had been the night before. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should give her another opportunity to chase away his pain. But before he could act on the thought, she tugged the plush blankets and furs on the bed up to cover herself.

All the better, Sylvain decided. He knew himself well, and if she had given him any signal at all, he would have indulged. Even though it was just more of the same, useless, destructive behaviour.

“Breakfast? For two?” Camille asked, with a dazzling smile.

Sylvain nodded.

“Of course. You don’t think I would let you go hungry, do you? Really, I’m not that type of man.”

The door finally opened, the stretch of time servants allowed their employers to resolve any unfinished, private matters having expired. Camille squeaked and drew the blanket higher so that only her hair and eyes were visible.

She needn’t have bothered. The servants were well used to this scenario and had long since stopped speculating whenever a new woman appeared in Sylvain’s bed. It happened so frequently, it simply wasn’t interesting anymore.

Sylvain climbed from bed and put on the robe he had left draped over the chair by the window. He wandered to the breakfast table, where a footman had begun to lay out a banquet, and swiped a piece of toast from the toast rack.

“Is my father awake, Louis?” Sylvain asked, looking at his manservant.

Louis nodded.

At that moment, a maid entered the room. She approached the bed and offered a robe to Camille, holding it up by the shoulders. Sylvain watched as Camille attempted to get out of bed and into the robe without exposing herself. She was clearly not noble, despite her affectations. Nobles were well accustomed to servants seeing them naked. Just as servants were unfazed by their masters’ nudity.

“Your father is waiting for you in the west study, sir,” Louis said, demonstrating the latter truth as he lazily gathered the clothing Sylvain had left scattered across the floor without sparing a glance for Camille. “He requests that you join him as soon as convenient.”

Sylvain nodded and finished his toast.

“Draw a bath at once,” he ordered.

Louis bowed and herded the rest of the servants from the room.

When they were gone, Sylvain wandered over to Camille and took hold of her upper arms, caressing them as he leaned in and kissed her. She was quick to respond, her arms wrapping around his waist and her lips moving eagerly against his. But he ended it before either of them could get carried away.

“Thank you for the lovely night, Camille,” Sylvain said. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

Camille frowned, her arms loosening. It gave Sylvain the opportunity to extract himself from the embrace. He crossed to where his slippers waited by the door.

“You aren’t staying?” she asked.

“As you heard, my father is waiting,” Sylvain said. “The maids will help you bathe and dress, then call a carriage to return you home.”

“When will I see you again?” Camille asked.

Sylvain stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He glanced back at her. She looked forlorn and confused, standing there by his bed, her hands clutching at the robe.

“I don’t know that you will, my dear,” Sylvain said.

Camille’s eyes grew wide. She spluttered wordlessly. Sylvain waited politely, allowing her the time she needed to understand.

“But, after last night, I thought…” Camille finally choked out. “What if…”

“Oh, please don’t worry about any complications,” Sylvain said, waving a hand through the air. “I have been taking herbs to prevent precious little accidents for over a year.”

Camille’s face twisted into a venomous frown. Sylvain sighed. It really was exhausting. These sorts of women were always furious at having their tricks turned back upon them. Why had he indulged in the illusion that Camille would be different?

“I’ll expose you,” she said. “You cannot behave in such a…licentious way without consequences.”

Sylvain laughed. He spread his hands, surrendering. Let her give it her best shot.

“My behaviour is hardly a secret,” he said. “What exactly do you plan to expose?”

“You can’t fool me,” Camille snapped. “I heard what you called me last night.”

Sylvain’s laughter faded as a ball of dread knotted in his stomach. He had hoped she had forgotten. And that wish must have shown on his face, because Camille smirked.

“Master Gautier, in love with a ghost,” she said. “Is that what is behind all this? You bed an endless parade of women and imagine her in their place?”

Sylvain strode across the room and grabbed Camille’s arm. She screamed as he dragged her to the hallway and threw her out into it. The maids there, waiting to attend to Camille, retreated to a safe distance. But they stayed to watch. Let them. Let everyone see that he had lost his mind. What else was new?

“Forget breakfast,” Sylvain growled at Camille. “Get out.”

“You cannot send me home in this!” Camille shrieked, yanking at the skirts of the robe.

“I can do whatever takes my fancy,” Sylvain said. “Because I am the Margrave’s heir, and that makes this my land and my house. If you didn’t want to go home like that, you shouldn’t have tried to use her against me. Louis!”

Louis materialised beside Camille.

“See to it that this woman gets home safely,” Sylvain said. “Tell my father I will be with him shortly.”

Camille continued to squawk and carry on as Sylvain slammed the door. When he fell against it, he felt it shake under her fists, pounding at the other side. He could hear the maids, and Louis, trying to calm her down.

Sylvain lifted a trembling hand to his head. These women. One day they would kill him. If only he would be so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain will be one of the key players in this fic, because I love him despite his philandering ways. Otherwise I can promise some Dimitri/Byleth content in the next instalment, keeping in mind this is slow burn… What happened between our prince and professor will be revealed over the next few chapters.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I enjoy feedback and other ideas of what may have happened after or during the events of the Blue Lions. This one will be a bit of a long journey, but I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it.


	2. A King and an Archbishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Dimitri's coronation, he and Byleth exchange rings on top of the Goddess Tower. A year later, they both find themselves in positions very different to the ones they imagined when they made their promise.

**I: Goddess Tower (Garreg Mach Monastery) | Horsebow Moon, Year 1186  
After Midnight **

Dimitri could hear someone singing as he drew towards the top of the Goddess Tower. The voice was too soft to determine who it might be. Regardless, he was surprised to find himself with company. Most of the monastery’s inhabitants and visitors had a role in the coming day’s celebrations, and had chosen to have an early night in preparation.

When Dimitri climbed the last step and saw who his fellow night owl was, his stomach seemed to drop right back down to the bottom of the tower. The box in his pocket felt like it had gained several pounds in weight. Should he consider this meeting coincidence or providence?

Dimitri cleared his throat to alert Byleth of his presence. She immediately fell silent and turned, her coat flaring out around her. Illuminated by torchlight and framed against the dark expanse of the sky, for a moment she looked like a spectre from another world. Although Dimitri was used to the strange, spring green colour of her hair and eyes, the fact that Byleth had received a divine revelation was astonishing to him still. Although it certainly made her a natural choice for the role of archbishop, which she had stepped into after Rhea’s abrupt departure two weeks earlier.

But tonight Byleth was not dressed in the robes that signified her new position. Her loose shirt and fitted trousers seemed overly careless after so many months of war, but they also assured Dimitri that the woman standing before him was the Byleth he knew. Not the one whom he had to address as “Your Grace” whenever Seteth was within hearing range. Which, these days, was most of the time.

“Dimitri,” Byleth said.

On her lips, his name carried a musical lilt and gladness that ignited his hope. Maybe it was providence that she was here.

But the part of Dimitri’s mind that always argued for coincidence retorted that Byleth was kind and good, and therefore not someone who would accept a beast like him.

“Come now, my friend,” Dimitri said as he stepped up to her. Did he imagine the waver in her smile when he used that horrid word? “You must stop staying up so late.”

“That would be more convincing if you were not standing here too,” Byleth responded.

Dimitri laughed as he joined her at the window. He would pretend to admire Garreg Mach by night, just to be closer to her. Although he suspected his intention was obvious, since there was no moon. All he could see below were the scattered points of light that marked windows and torches. Nonetheless, he leaned his elbows on the sill and looked out towards the horizon.

“It makes little difference, does it?” he said. “You cannot sleep. Neither can I.”

Byleth copied his posture, but on the other side of the window post. That slight separation was painful, tempting Dimitri to reach across and wrap his fingers around hers. He did not.

“I was thinking about tomorrow,” Byleth said. “Are you nervous?”

Dimitri rubbed his hands together against the cold night air. Byleth’s question had sharpened the tingling in the left one. The symptom had seemed more persistent during the last few days, and he wondered if it was a trick of the mind, spurred by concern about his impending coronation.

“Nervous or no, I will be present,” he said. “It is only the beginning of my atonement for all the wrongs I committed against my people.”

“That is exactly what I would expect from you,” Byleth said fondly. She straightened and turned to face him. “How is your hand?”

Dimitri quickly stepped backwards, away from her. She must have noticed his compulsive action, guessed its meaning. But she should be concerning herself with more important things than his wounds.

“There is still a numbness,” Dimitri said. “But it does not hinder me too much. I suspect it is permanent and so is nothing to worry about.”

Byleth took his hand. Dimitri wondered if she felt his pulse begin to race as she turned his palm towards the sky and began to massage it. He felt soft strings of healing magic thrum over his skin.

“I should try some other healing,” she said. “There must be something I can do.”

Dimitri tightened his hand around hers. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Don’t,” he said. “It is the price of my wrongs. I will just add it to the nightmares and the death cries that ring in my ears. It is a warning to not return to the ways of the past. I want the people to be able to live in peace, and for that to happen, I need to remember. It will always remind me of my wish to change this world in my own way, without war.”

Byleth’s expression remained blank as Dimitri spoke. His tongue was running away with him again and dancing around the words he actually wanted to say.

“Well, things will be busy from now on,” he said, trying to recover. “Once a professor and student…now an archbishop and a king. How very far we have come.”

Even as he spoke, Dimitri cursed himself for the clumsy words. They were followed by a long silence. It took Dimitri a moment to realise he was still holding Byleth’s hand—it was so warm, felt so calming and right—and was about to pull free when she inexplicably smiled.

“Only our titles have changed,” she said.

Of course. Dimitri released Byleth. She still saw him as a student, as someone in need of instruction and guidance.

“That is true,” he said, looking away. “To me, you will always be the one who guided me so kindly. My ally through all. My beloved…”

Dimitri stopped. Sothis, Seiros, and Cichol.

He lifted his eyes to Byleth’s face, terrified of what he would see. All he saw was that blank expression of surprise that epitomised Byleth. It was clear she had heard him. He realised there was no turning back.

“Yes…” he said, accepting that he would have to face her rejection, “my beloved.”

“Dimitri…”

“Listen.” He knew he had to speak quickly or he would lose his nerve and flee down all 414 steps of the tower. “If I am honest, I wanted to see you before the coronation. Meeting you here was a coincidence, but at least it gives me the opportunity to give you this without an audience.”

Dimitri pulled the box from his pocket and opened it. He hesitated a moment, then drew out the ring.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

He was surprised when Byleth gently rested her hand atop of his and allowed him to slip the ring onto her finger. It was perfect there, Dimitri realised, the single sapphire and gold band winking in the torchlight. Knowing how well it suited her would make it worse when she threw it back at him.

“I am…not good at things like this,” Dimitri said. “I know that we have had little time to enjoy ourselves as couples do, and so this may seem a bit hasty, but it is an honest reflection of my feelings for you.”

Byleth did not speak. She just stared at the ring. Finally, Dimitri dropped his hand and shoved the box back into his pocket as he stepped away from her, unable to bear the tension any longer.

“Please, say something,” he said. “If you do not want to accept it…”

_Throw it from the tower, or sell it to a hawker,_ were the words Dimitri could not bring himself to say. _Just don’t give it back to me._

“Dimitri.”

Dimitri looked up. Byleth was holding something in her fist, watching him with tears in her eyes. Was he so pathetic and gauche that he had made her cry?

“You beat me to it,” Byleth said. She opened her fist. “This was my mother’s. Before he died, my father told me that I should gift it to the person I care about most in this world.”

The ring sitting on Byleth’s palm was silver and set with slivers of opal. It was certainly not the type of ring exchanged at a royal engagement. But it didn’t matter in the slightest, because she was offering it to him.

Dimitri laughed as he took the ring. He couldn’t help it. He was too shocked, too happy, for any other reaction. Byleth laughed too, her hand resting on his arm as Dimitri tried to put the ring on. But it was sized for a woman and only fit his little finger.

“I’m sorry,” Byleth said, the apology verging on a giggle. “I will get you a different one.”

Dimitri shook his head as he pulled her towards him.

“No,” he said. “I want this one.”

Byleth’s pale green eyes met his. She reached one hand between them and pressed it against his chest. For a moment she was still, as though intrigued by something. He was about to ask what, but then she turned her face up and kissed him. At that moment he forgot everything else in the world.

**II: Royal Castle (Fhirdiad) | Red Wolf Moon, Year 1187  
Evening **

“Boar king, I’m worried about Sylvain.”

Dimitri looked up from his correspondence. He typically spent the evenings alone, but today Felix had announced himself and entered without waiting for permission. Now the Duke Fraldarius sat by the fire with his feet up, playing with the dagger gifted to Dimitri at his coronation by Holst Goneril. Although Felix’s gaze was on the blade, his tight grip on the handle revealed that his mind was elsewhere. Usually Felix treated weapons with only the greatest tenderness.

“Why are you worried about Sylvain?” Dimitri prompted.

“He’s…different,” Felix said.

Dimitri folded the letter from Count Varley that he had been reading. It was a tedious composition of trite platitudes, and even Felix’s uncooperative conversation would be far superior.

“I know he is still grieving, but he seemed otherwise normal during his last visit to Fhirdiad,” Dimitri said.

“By normal, I suppose you mean that he was so busy flirting with every woman, he had no time to devote to a single one.”

Dimitri chuckled as he reached up to remove his eye patch. After a long day, like the one he had just endured, it began to irritate him. The edges itched and the strap seemed to slowly tighten around his head.

When he looked up, he caught Felix studying him.

“What is it?” Dimitri asked.

“Why do you wear it?” Felix demanded. “You don’t need it. Yes, your eye is clouded like one of those demonic beasts, and the scarring might turn a few weak stomachs, but it’s not overly hideous. Or are you too attached to your beast persona to give it up?”

Dimitri traced the edges of the patch. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It just feels required.”

Felix snorted and hurled the dagger across the room. The blade embedded itself into the wooden window frame with strength lent by a Crest.

“Felix,” Dimitri warned.

“It’s just a nick,” Felix said as he stood up. “But back to Sylvain. It’s true that his version of normal is of a peculiar category, but he wasn’t careless before. You know the servants of the noble houses talk to each other. The rumours I’ve heard about Sylvain’s recent behaviour make me worry he is losing control.”

Dimitri sighed. He would have preferred to discuss problems regarding the nobles, or Fhirdiad, or even the entire continent of Fódlan. They were problems he could solve. Or at least approach with the consolation that logic should have some effect.

“What do you propose I do?” he asked. “I can’t forbid him from seeing women.”

“No, but you were able to convince him to ease off once before. Maybe coming from you, a reprimand will have an effect.”

“That time we had an agreement of a very precise nature that I am not willing to duplicate,” Dimitri said.

Felix shrugged. He wandered over to the dagger and tapped it with one finger. It didn’t budge.

Taking Felix’s distraction as a close to the topic, Dimitri picked up the next piece of correspondence in his pile. The seal of the defunct House of Gloucester announced its origin. Like many noble houses, Gloucester was ruined after pouring all of its resources, including the life of its heir, into the Empire’s cause. It had finally collapsed two months earlier. Just in time to leave hundreds of people without work as Fódlan moved into winter.

It was another example of one of the most pressing problems in the aftermath of the war. United as the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, the continent remained dependant on the system of nobility for its governance and economy. But the wealth of many houses was gone. So too were the wages for those who worked those great estates. The loss of income had driven countless people to the cities to look for work, which was causing strain on housing as rebuilding efforts struggled to keep pace. And so the nobility wrote to Dimitri, begging him to send money that he could not spare from a treasury exhausted by war and recovery, even with the funds from the former Empire’s pockets.

Dimitri sighed as he broke the seal and unfolded the veritable ream of paper.

> Our most illustrious majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the Saviour King, we beg the indulgence of your time in regards to a matter…

“I think you should send him to Byleth.”

The words of the letter became nonsense in Dimitri’s mind. He dropped his hand to the desk, the paper rustling as he tightened his grip. It was mystifying. Dimitri could hear Byleth’s name bandied about like a magical cure all day in meetings and remain impartial. But in the safety of his private rooms, it took on a power that erased all time between the present and one particular evening of the Horsebow Moon, over a year earlier.

“Do you think time away from Faerghus will help?” Dimitri asked at length.

“No, I think Byleth will help,” Felix replied.

There was a clunk as Felix pulled the dagger from the window frame. Dimitri looked over his shoulder to see the damage left was quite a bit more than a nick.

“Byleth knows exactly how to comfort each one of us,” Felix continued. “She seems to understand us better than we understand ourselves.”

“Indeed.” Dimitri threw letter from Gloucester aside, a sickening brew of grief and yearning causing his heart to race. “As I have experienced firsthand on numerous occasions.”

Felix put the dagger down on Dimitri’s desk.

“And who knows,” he said. “Maybe being there—at the academy, I mean—will help him grieve in a less destructive way.”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow at Felix. “What do you mean?”

Felix crossed his arms. “I don’t want a repeat performance. Witnessing the farce of the boar prince once was enough to last me a lifetime.”

Dimitri could not blame Felix for that. His own behaviour during the war, particularly the events that had led to Felix standing before him in Rodrigue’s place, caused Dimitri shame that was sometimes beyond bearing. Atonement was a word more easily uttered than fulfilled.

Still, Dimitri continued to try. If only because Byleth’s tears when he promised her to do so were as clear in his mind as if he lived that dreadful afternoon at Garreg Mach over and over again.

“Felix, please,” Dimitri said. “I may be king, but if there is something troubling my friends, I wish to know about it. I would never put my work above the people I care about.”

Felix was still for a moment, then walked around Dimitri’s desk and rested a hand on the pile of correspondence.

“My dear boar king, isn’t that the very definition of your title?” he drawled.

**III: Garreg Mach Monastery  
Midnight **

Byleth sighed in relief as she lifted the mitre from her head and placed it on the stand by her mirror. It had been a long evening. The cathedral had been filled to capacity for mass. Scores of those in attendance had come forward to receive a blessing, trapping Byleth at the altar for an hour longer than usual. All of that before greeting the worshippers and the evening’s report with Seteth.

Not that she begrudged the people their enthusiasm. It was a relief to see so many of them smiling. Hardship and despair continued to ravage Fódlan. Healing the land and its people would take time. For now, one of the few ways she could help was through the rituals of the church. If that was all she could contribute until the day she departed the world forever, she would.

Assuming, of course, that death was her fate.

Byleth picked up her fur stole and wrapped it around her shoulders before leaving her bedroom. She walked down the dark corridor to the Star Terrace, at the other end of the floor. Outside, she could see a line of torches across the bridge from the cathedral, marking the flow of the last departing worshippers back to Garreg Mach Town.

As she watched the people leave, Byleth pressed a hand against her chest. Until she had come to Garreg Mach, she had not realised that she did not have a heartbeat. She had not even known it was normal to have a steady thumping in one’s chest. Only when she read the chilling words in her father’s diary and heard Sothis’s gasp did Byleth know that there was something truly wrong with her.

Investigations into the matter had been cut short by the disappearance of her father’s diary and the events following the battle with Kronya and Solon. Throughout the war, her impossible condition had been the last thing on her mind. Then, after becoming archbishop, it seemed too selfish to pursue her own worries. Nonetheless, these days her lack of a heartbeat, its possible meanings, the way in which it might affect her future, frequently surfaced in her thoughts.

Byleth reached up and drew out the chain hidden beneath her robes. She slipped her finger into the silver ring hanging from it.

She wished she could speak to Dimitri.

Before her appointment and his coronation, Byleth had been able to speak to Dimitri about anything. She had known that he would listen and be able to determine whether she needed help, or just space to air her worries and newfound emotions. She had been able to depend on his discretion and support.

Now every exchange was dictated by their positions. Dimitri had visited Garreg Mach three moons earlier for the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth. He had stayed two days, but their time together had been short and supervised. Byleth had been required at ceremonies and mass, and of course the Rite itself, and Dimitri had attended endless meetings with the bishops about political matters and finances. In all, Byleth had seen Dimitri for less than an hour, when what she had wanted more than anything was to throw the ceremonies aside and spend the whole time with him.

Byleth let go of the ring with a frustrated sigh. She berated herself for letting her own concerns distract her from what she should be doing, which was praying for the people returning home. She occupied Rhea’s rooms, and stood watching from the same place Rhea had once watched, but she was a poor replacement.

“Your Grace?”

Byleth quickly pushed the ring back under her robes. She turned to see Seteth at the far end of the corridor, standing by the door of her bedroom with a tea tray.

“I am here, Seteth,” she called, entering in from the balcony.

Quickly traversing the corridor, Byleth opened her bedroom door and allowed Seteth to enter first. He carried the tray to the table by the fireplace and put it down.

“Flayn insisted that I bring you this,” he said. “She said that you looked quite exhausted after this evening’s mass.”

“Please thank her for me,” Byleth said. “It is precisely what I need.”

Seteth frowned at her as she sat down and picked up the teapot.

“You will tell me if your duties are too much, won’t you?” he said.

“If I did complain, would the load be lighted?” Byleth asked as she began to pour the tea. The scent rising from the beverage indicted an apple-blend, typical of Flayn’s preferences, which made Byleth smile. She was also cheered to see the small piece of madeira cake to accompany it.

“I cannot think of what could be removed from…” Seteth began, only to fall silent as Byleth looked up.

“I was joking, Seteth,” she said.

Seteth bristled and straightened, crossing his arms.

“Your jokes remain regrettably unfathomable, Your Grace.”

Byleth smiled. She doubted she would ever be terribly good at humour. Although Dimitri always laughed, even when no one else in the room did.

“Thank you for the tea, Seteth,” Byleth said. “If you don’t mind, I would like to enjoy it quietly before bed.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Seteth bowed before turning towards the door.

“Oh,” he said, at the last moment before leaving, “you have not forgotten the special mass tomorrow? We are beginning the ceremonies requested by Fhirdiad as we approach Founding Day, if you recall.”

“Of course not, Seteth.”

“Just making sure. Goodnight, Your Grace.”

Seteth closed the door with a snap. Byleth fiddled with the handle of her teacup as she listened to his steps disappear down the hallway and stairs.

Byleth picked up the madeira cake and broke it in half. When Rhea entrusted her with the church, Byleth had not understood. She had imagined providing comfort and assistance to the people, helping Dimitri create a new Fódlan. She had not anticipated the loneliness that came with the post of archbishop. The loneliness that made its duties so difficult.

The chime of her chamber clock echoed through her room, signalling the first hour of the new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the dialogue in section I are quoted from the in-game S support conversation between Dimitri and Byleth. I modified the flow and content to suit this story, but tried to keep all of the thematic elements present in the original.
> 
> In this story, Dimitri did not lose his entire eye, but his sight was damaged beyond repair and he has significant scarring around the eye that he hides with the eye patch.


	3. Changing the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is changing for Annette and Dedue, who share some news with Dimitri as he endures another morning as king. Byleth continues to struggle with her role as head of the church.

**I: Fhirdiad  
Morning **

Annette was woken by two things: the birdsong outside her window, and a delicious, sweet smell. Her stomach growled loudly. She giggled and reached out behind her in search of her husband. As suspected, his place was empty.

“Dedue?” Annette called, looking over her shoulder.

A moment later her husband appeared in the door of their bedroom. Annette felt a small tinge of guilt at seeing Dedue already dressed in the uniform that marked him as a member of the king’s personal staff. That meant that he had been up for hours, since his morning routine included exercise at the castle training yards and a visit to the sauna. And while Annette was still in bed, the apron Dedue wore over his uniform confirmed that he was responsible for the delightful scent drifting through the house.

“Do you need something?” Dedue asked, his voice devoid of any judgement or indignation.

Annette reached out a hand towards him, her back still facing the door.

“Come back to bed,” she said.

Dedue hesitated a moment. He was still something of a stranger to spontaneity, and Annette knew he was surely due at the castle some time soon. But after that moment, he untied his apron and hung it on the door handle.

The mattress shifted as Dedue lay down and drew Annette against his chest. A gentle kiss settled on the nape of her neck as he wrapped his arms around her. There was no safer or more blissful place than this, Annette thought, closing her eyes and pulling his arms tighter.

“Good morning,” Dedue said softly in her ear.

“Good morning,” Annette replied. She opened her eyes, lifting Dedue’s hand and measuring her own against it before lacing their fingers together. “What are you making?”

Dedue chuckled. “Pancakes. I baked some apples to top them.”

“It smells absolutely scrumptious,” Annette said. “But won’t you be late?”

“Probably. But I wanted to make you something special.”

Annette turned her head so she could see him from the corner of her eye.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

Dedue shifted, pushing himself up onto his elbow so he could look in her eyes. He extracted his hand from hers and rested it on the slight swell of her belly.

“You have made me happier than I ever thought I would be,” he said.

Annette rolled over and threw her arms around his neck.

“And you make me so happy,” she said. “I never thought someone would be able to put up with my clumsiness. But you take everything in your stride.”

Dedue laughed as he patted her back. “You have made significant progress,” he said.

“Oh, you’re just saying that.”

“I am not. But if I may, Annette, you are wrinkling my uniform.”

Annette immediately released him, drawing back to search for the place she had caused the trouble.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed.

Dedue caressed her face. “No, it is my fault,” he said.

He pushed himself into a seated position and straightened his jacket.

“Let me finish making breakfast,” he said. “Your stomach is deafening.”

Dedue collected his apron on the way out the door. Annette got out of bed and sat down at the dressing table near the window. She picked up her brush and ran it through her wayward hair, humming to herself as she heard Dedue resume work in the kitchen. She knew he would be able to hear her too. Their house was that small, with their sparse collection of furniture filling every nook. It was very different to what Annette was accustomed to. But nonetheless, it was home.

After their marriage, Annette’s father had begged them to return with him to Dominic House. Although it had been tempting, Annette had known how important it was to Dedue that they find their own place. Part of it was due to pride: the announcement of their engagement only a moon after the end of the war had generated a lot of speculation as to whether Dedue was a Crest-seeker. But most of his wish could be attributed to his history. From the age of fourteen, Dedue had been without the comfort of home. His entire life was ripped away by the Tragedy of Duscur. He had lost his family, his country, and his identity. And, despite Dimitri’s best efforts, he was rejected completely by the people of Faerghus.

In a similar way, Annette’s world was forever changed by her father’s disappearance. After moving to her uncle’s home, she had never been truly comfortable. The constant pressure to be a perfect and suitable member of the Dominic family had left her in a state of uncertainty. The Royal School of Sorcery and the Officers Academy had temporarily filled her longing for the home she had known, but an uneasiness had underpinned all of her time in those places. The breaking of her family made her suspicious of every happy moment. She knew the world could fall apart in an instant.

When Dedue had apologetically shown Annette the small apartment they could afford on their combined income, Annette had, to Dedue’s immense surprise, been overjoyed. She had been thrilled with every aspect of the tiny home simply because it was a new chapter for them both. Their little apartment in the centre of Fhirdiad provided the comfort and security both of them had been missing since their early adolescence. As Fódlan changed around them, they were able to exist here without fear or disturbance.

Annette put her brush down and rested her hand on her belly, awe at the newest tiny miracle in their lives overwhelming her. The war really was over, and their lives had changed for the better.

“You and I have been very lucky in your father,” she said softly. “He will take such good care of you. You will be loved so much.”

**II: The King’s Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)   
Morning**

Dimitri did not open his eyes when he was woken by the sounds of the ash boy lighting the fire. Nor did he move when the clamour of servants in the hallway grew louder. He despised laziness in all its forms, but this morning getting out of bed felt like a task beyond even his ability.

It had been the early hours of the morning when Dimitri finally put his work aside, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. He had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Now, if he could just rest until his first appointment, he would not ask for anything else for a full moon.

But Dimitri could not ignore the firm knock on his door a short time later.

“Your Majesty?”

The deep voice of his manservant and the sound of the door opening drove Dimitri to sit up. He could not appear to be slacking in front of his staff.

Rhys entered with the tea tray. He was immaculately presented, as always, with shoes reflecting the firelight from the hearth.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Dimitri replied.

Rhys placed the tray on the breakfast table. He picked up a folded paper from it and crossed to the bed.

“There is an urgent note from the duke,” Rhys said, passing it to Dimitri. “Also, the priest from the Central Church arrived ahead of schedule and wants to have an audience with you this afternoon. Count Gloucester has sent another representative. The Master of Ceremonies is keen for you to select your preferred dance for the Founding Day ball, and Master Ubert has sent a message from Varley territory. Would you like your meal laid in the breakfast room?”

Every morning started this way. A barrage of information and questions. Dimitri broke the seal on the note as he resolved the simplest matter.

“I’m surprised you still ask that question,” he said.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “You know why, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri sighed. He understood the reasons the nobility and his staff insisted he maintain the traditions of the royal family. It was important for the people to see a return to routine after the upheaval of war. But after five years carving an existence on the outskirts of society, the trappings and rituals of being king seemed extravagant. Especially sitting down to a full breakfast when there were people in the Kingdom who could not put food on the table.

“I will take breakfast here,” Dimitri instructed.

Rhys nodded and bowed himself out the door. Dimitri could tell he was not pleased with the instruction, but he could not force his preference. For Dimitri’s part, he did not understand why Rhys could not see that eating alone in the breakfast room only made unnecessary work for everyone. Perhaps Dimitri would feel differently if he had someone to dine with, but he still slept alone.

Identifying that line of thought as a useless one, Dimitri climbed out of bed. And climbing it truly was, untangling himself from the excessive number of blankets and finding the distant floor at the bed’s base. When finally free, Dimitri pulled on his robe and crossed to the window to throw open the curtains.

Morning light poured into the room, chasing away the shadows that lingered in the corners of the room. The roofs of Fhirdiad were spread like a quilt below, their shapes and colours stirring pride in Dimitri. Despite all that opposed them, his city and his people were rebuilding their lives and creating a new Fódlan that would prosper despite the challenges rising before it.

Dimitri had convinced his servants that he could open the curtains himself precisely to receive that reminder every morning. Often it was sorely needed. And it probably would be required again shortly.

Dimitri shook Felix’s note from its folds and skimmed its contents. He groaned. Felix had spent the better part of his time in Fhirdiad negotiating with the House of Rowe over a proposal Dimitri wanted to present to the nobility during the Founding Day councils. It was one of the tasks that had kept Dimitri up most of the night. And now, Rowe was demanding another amendment.

“He acts as if they were the ones who won the war and not the House that sold Faerghus to the emperor,” Dimitri muttered as he went to the breakfast table and poured himself some tea.

Another knock caused Dimitri to look up. He had expected Rhys’s return, but instead saw Dedue carrying the breakfast tray. A much more welcome sight.

“Dedue,” Dimitri said, putting down his teacup. “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning, Dimitri,” Dedue replied as he entered the room. “I encountered Rhys in the hallway, bringing your tray.”

“And you sent him away?” Dimitri asked, putting the note down beside the teapot.

Dedue nodded.

“Thank you,” Dimitri said, his tone perhaps a little too honest.

Dedue shook his head as he deposited the breakfast tray on the table in front of Dimitri. Dimitri sat down and pressed his hands against the walls of the porridge bowl to warm them.

“Is there an extra teacup?” he asked, scanning the tray. “Join me.”

Dedue bowed. “I will go and fetch one.”

While Dedue disappeared out the door, Dimitri dug his spoon into his porridge. In his early days as king, the castle cooks had sent all sorts of delicacies and complex plates up to him for breakfast. It had taken months for them to understand that all he truly wanted in the morning was plain porridge with whatever fruit was available. Anything else was wasted on him. But the cooks still found ways to demonstrate their refinement. This morning, slices of pale pink fig were the fruit of choice. A decadence that Dimitri appreciated at the same time as condemning.

By the time Dedue returned, Dimitri had finished half of the bowl. Dedue cast a critical eye over his progress—a habit Dimitri suspected would never disappear—and detected his empty teacup. As Dedue began to refill it, Dimitri noticed something unusual.

“Dedue, you’re smiling,” he said.

Dedue paused.

“Am I?” he asked.

Dimitri nodded with a laugh.

“You aren’t usually this excited by tea.”

Dedue returned to his task, his smile taking on an odd twist. Dimitri stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“We have some good news,” Dedue said, putting down the teapot. He held the cup out to Dimitri. “You are the first to know, apart from Annette’s parents.”

Dimitri dropped his spoon. It clattered against the porridge bowl.

“Annette?” he asked.

Dedue nodded proudly. “Annette is expecting.”

Dimitri sprung from his chair with a shout. Dedue quickly put Dimitri’s teacup down and stood, allowing Dimitri to take his hand and pull him into a hug.

“Congratulations,” Dimitri said as he released his friend. “Seiros. When?”

Dedue stood straight, but his expression was sheepish.

“The child will be born five months from now,” he said.

“It is incredible news.” Dimitri dropped back into his seat. “The best I’ve heard in a long time.”

Dedue sat down and filled his own cup.

“It makes me realise that things can truly change for the better,” he said. “I never expected to be this happy. Ever since the Tragedy, I was convinced that there was no place in this world for people like me. And now…”

Dedue shrugged, joy apparent in his entire bearing. Dimitri had seen him unable to find words before, but never because of joy. It made the spectres of coming meetings with the nobles and preparations for Founding Day dissipate. Dimitri allowed himself to relax and enjoy simply spending time with someone he cared about.

“I hope, Dimitri, that one day soon I can congratulate you on your own happiness,” Dedue said suddenly.

Dimitri choked on his tea, all ease vanishing. He lowered his cup to the table, gesturing to Dedue not to make a fuss as he lifted a napkin to his mouth.

“There is far too much work to be done to even think of that,” he said between coughs.

“Changing the world would be easier with someone you trust by your side,” Dedue commented. “Have you spoken to the professor lately?”

Dimitri stared at his friend, wondering if Dedue was trying to be shrewd. Of course, Dedue could not know the details of what had happened between Dimitri and Byleth at the time of the coronation. They had agreed to never speak of it again, and so Dimitri never had.

But Dedue did know that Dimitri had a greater interest in Byleth than any other person of their acquaintance. It was natural that he would put their names together when thinking of Dimitri’s future.

“Please, my friend,” Dimitri said, “there is still so much work for me to do. I cannot even consider marriage at this time.”

He pointed at the note from Felix.

“That, for instance,” he said. “How exactly does one get a dozen nobles to agree to the same terms?”

Dedue shook his head. “I regret that is something I cannot help you with.”

**III: Cathedral (Garreg Mach Monastery)   
Afternoon **

“And as we commemorate the founding of the Holy Kingdom, we ask that the goddess look upon our king with favour and kindness,” Byleth recited. “Guide his thoughts and actions down a pathway that is right and good.”

_And please make sure he is getting some rest,_ Byleth added silently, as she closed the copy of the Book of Seiros that sat on the lectern before her.

“I raise these prayers to the heavens in the name of all followers of the goddess gathered here,” she continued aloud. “We thank the goddess for her blessings, and for her revelation to Seiros in order that we may know the truth and gather here to worship.”

A chorus of assent echoed throughout the cathedral.

“The love of the goddess go with you from this place,” Byleth finished, clasping her hands together in front of her and bowing her head to the people.

As the congregation began to rise from their seats and file towards the door, Seteth stepped up beside the pulpit.

“Well done,” he said quietly. “These days you are more confident when performing ceremonies.”

Byleth was pleased by the compliment. She was trying to be more like Rhea, and less like herself, when she performed mass. She knew that her rough mannerisms, born from life as a mercenary, were considered unbefitting to rituals such as this. The cardinals had alluded to the problem many times. If Seteth was taking the time to comment on her conduct, she must be improving.

“Thank you,” Byleth said. “It seemed to go well.”

Seteth nodded as he held a hand out to her. Byleth gladly took it to steady herself as she descended the stairs from the pulpit.

“I believe His Majesty will appreciate your efforts today,” Seteth said. “The people will not fail to heed the words of the Enlightened One.”

Byleth shared the worry she detected in Seteth’s voice. At the last church council, Shamir had reported that discontent was growing in certain parts of Fódlan, mostly in former Empire territories. There were whispers that Dimitri was unable to rule the unified continent, or worse, was unfit to do so. Enough time had passed since the end of the war that the relief of peace had worn thin. People were beginning to criticise the one they had eagerly proclaimed the Saviour King.

If the church knew about these grumblings, Byleth was certain that they had also been heard in Fhirdiad. She suspected they were behind the request from Dimitri’s office for extra masses before Founding Day. Not only were Dimitri and his advisors seeking the blessing of the goddess, they were also praying that hearing the expanded Kingdom expounded during mass would quiet talk amongst followers of the church.

“I hope it makes a difference,” Byleth said as they walked towards the west entrance of the cathedral.

Seteth paused as a bishop approached him and whispered something in his ear. Seteth nodded and held out his hand, signalling for Byleth to continue walking. The bishop departed in the opposite direction.

“Your Grace,” Seteth said, falling into step beside her, “there has been a request for a wedding ceremony tomorrow.”

Byleth smiled.

“I enjoy performing weddings,” she said. “Of all the rituals, they seem the most real to me.”

Byleth regretted the words the moment they left her mouth, realising what they implied. And as expected, when she dared look at Seteth, his expression had turned stern.

“You do not consider mass or the other rituals to be real?” he asked.

“No, that is not what I…”

“You are the centre of the faith, Professor. You know that as head of the church, you must believe in the sanctity and significance of worship.”

“Of course I do,” Byleth murmured.

Seteth stopped suddenly and faced her. She felt her cheeks burn as he bowed.

“I do not mean to scold you,” Seteth said, although his tone remained chastising. “You have come a long way from when you first arrived here with your father. You have proved yourself to be hardworking and diligent. Rhea left you in charge of the church, and I promised to support you.”

“You have done that,” Byleth said quietly.

“Please let me finish, Your Grace.”

Counsellors were emerging from the cathedral. Seteth held out his hand to guide Byleth towards the Goddess Tower. He did not continue speaking until they were past the well and out of hearing range.

“If anyone overhead and misconstrued comments such as the one you just made, it would cause great turmoil amongst the faithful,” he said. “It does not matter what you meant by the words. It only matters what people understand them to mean.”

Byleth nodded. “You are right,” she said. “I’m sorry, Seteth.”

Seteth’s face softened as he sighed. “Do not apologise, Your Grace,” he said. “I sometimes forget that you have only been learning the church’s teachings for three years. Some people study for a lifetime and fail to grasp the basic tenants of the faith.”

“I will try harder,” Byleth promised.

“I do not doubt it. And for myself, I must remember that you are chosen by the goddess, as your appearance attests,” he said with a smile.

Byleth forced herself to return his smile. She felt humiliated, but she did not want Seteth to know. It would only cause him distress. She knew he wanted to help her, and he did not deserve to feel uncomfortable for attempting to do so.

“I am always happy to receive instruction from you, Seteth,” Byleth said. “Now, if it is possible, I would like to spend some time in private prayer.”

Seteth bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I will fetch you before the meeting about the next round of repairs to the cathedral.”

Byleth nodded.

As Seteth scurried away, Byleth turned towards the Goddess Tower. It had become a place of comfort to Byleth, somewhere she could indulge in a moment of quiet and reflection. She had even taken to speaking to Sothis. Although she never answered, it seemed the right thing to do. Especially considering what she had said the last time Byleth remembered seeing the mysterious girl.

The door at the base of the Goddess Tower still creaked, awakening memories in Byleth as she opened it. She smiled bitterly at the thought of who had always been waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Today, she would have to content herself with the birds and the clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter a bit tricky to write, it fought me all the way. But here it finally is. I did enjoy writing a little bit of happiness, especially for Dedue. I haven't seen much happiness for him around, so glad to contribute some!


	4. Desire and Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Byleth deliver happy news to their trusted advisors on the day of Dimitri's coronation. The response is not what they expected.

**Goddess Tower (Garreg Mach Monastery) | Horsebow Moon, Year 1186   
Mid-afternoon **

Dimitri was standing by the window. Byleth paused on the top stair for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of admiring his broad shoulders, his hair in the sunlight. The way that the crown suited him, and the pride that had replaced the nerves she had witnessed the night before. In the black frogged uniform made for the coronation, even without the blue cape he had worn for the ceremony itself, Dimitri was transformed into a king.

A king, Byleth though with a flush of pleasure, who wanted her by his side. She did not know how the common daughter of a mercenary warranted such luck. But the love she had seen in Dimitri’s face when they parted ways early that morning, her to the archbishop’s quarters and he to his old room in the dormitories, revealed that, somehow, she had been granted it.

Byleth took another step towards Dimitri. He looked up at the sound of her heels on the stone floor. A smile brightened his face. He strode towards her, reached out to take her hand and pull her into an embrace. His arms enveloped her as he held her closer than anyone ever had before. It was intimate, and new, and wonderful.

“You look so beautiful,” Dimitri breathed in her ear. He skimmed his fingers down her neck and across the bare skin of her shoulder, sending a shiver through Byleth. She had removed her ceremonial mantle and left it in her room, needing a break from its weight. Dimitri seemed determined to take full advantage of that fact.

“When I entered the cathedral and saw you, I wanted to take your hand and steal you away,” he continued. “I wanted you all to myself.”

Byleth wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder.

“You were being crowned king, and all you could think about was abducting the archbishop?” she teased.

Dimitri loosened his grip and tilted her chin up with one hand. Byleth couldn’t help but smile as their eyes met.

“No one would blame me,” Dimitri said. He kissed her gently. “When they were placing the crown on my head, I could see you from the corner of my eye. It was most distracting.”

As was the way Dimitri was tracing patterns across her back. Remembering his awkward confession the night before, Byleth wondered when he had become so bold. Possibly at some point during the dozens of kisses after they exchanged rings.

Byleth pulled back.

“They’ll be here soon,” she reminded him.

Dimitri groaned. “I wish they wouldn’t.”

Byleth laughed as she removed herself from Dimitri’s arms.

“We asked them to come,” she reminded him.

“I know, but I’d much rather…”

The sound of boots on the stairs caused Dimitri to fall silent. He grabbed Byleth’s hand and squeezed it before stepping away to a respectable distance and straightening his jacket.

Margrave Gautier emerged from the staircase. He tapped his walking stick on the floor and glanced around the tower. Upon locating them, he strode across the room. He took Byleth’s hand and bowed over it with a flourish.

After meeting the Margrave, Byleth finally understood where Sylvain had acquired both his charm and his height. Not to mention his looks. Byleth had seen even young men and women admiring the Margrave, and trying to catch his eye in return. He was aware of it as well, dressing in bold colours and styles that helped him command whatever room he entered.

“Climbing the tower is not a trial I was expecting to endure on your coronation day,” the Margrave said as he turned to Dimitri.

“I apologise,” Dimitri said, reaching out to grasp the Margrave’s hand.

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” Felix said as he appeared.

Byleth was, once again, startled to see Felix in the effects that announced his position as Duke Fraldarius. His suit was made of rich silk and velvet, a ceremonial sword hung at his waist, and the ring Byleth had last seen on Rodrigue’s hand was heavy on Felix’s thin one. Although he by turns seemed uncomfortable in his role, Dimitri had told Byleth that her former student was proving a remarkable statesman.

Seteth and Cardinal Manfred trailed closed behind Felix. They both still wore the robes required by church members for formal ceremonies. Byleth made a mental note to apologise to them later.

“Your Grace, Your Majesty,” Seteth said. “I’m afraid we do not have much time. We must make some changes to this evening’s mass.”

“This should not take long,” Dimitri said. “We…Byleth and I…wish to share some news with you all.”

Margrave Gautier raised an eyebrow.

“Is this something of an official nature?” he asked. “Your Majesty knows that without the presence of all the high lords…”

“It is of an official nature, but considering the situation we thought it best that we inform you as soon as possible,” Dimitri said. “And as privately as possible. Although I wish Sylvain could be present as well…”

Dimitri trailed off. A heaviness settled on the room. Byleth’s eyes darted towards Felix as he looked away, raising one hand to tug at the collar of his coat. There had been two noticeable absences at the coronation: Count Galatea and Sylvain. It was two months since the Battle of Enbarr.

“What is it you wish to say, Your Majesty?” Manfred asked, drawing everyone back to the room.

Byleth smiled at the cardinal in gratitude. He was a gentle, warm soul who had proven a wonderful counsellor to soldiers suffering from their experiences in the war. Although none of his counselees knew him as cardinal, in keeping with the church’s resolute secrecy regarding who sat on the council.

Dimitri looked at Byleth. There was a question in his expression, a request for permission to make their engagement official and binding. He wanted to know if she was certain.

Byleth reached out and took Dimitri’s hand. He grinned as their fingers wove together.

When Byleth looked up, she was confronted with three shocked faces. Felix, for his part, rolled his eyes and turned his back on them all, staring out the window across Garreg Mach.

“My lords,” Dimitri said, “Seteth and Cardinal. Byleth has agreed to become my wife.”

The joy and satisfaction in Dimitri’s voice was met with silence. It stretched out, making the distant sounds of celebration in the grounds seem inordinately loud.

Dimitri’s fingers tightened around Byleth’s hand.

“Is something wrong?” he asked at length.

Seteth looked at Byleth.

“Your Grace, I…” he stuttered.

Byleth felt as though her gut was twisting into a thousand knots. Seteth only struggled for words when he was conflicted about something. Meanwhile, Felix turned back to the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked at the Margrave, then at Manfred. He seemed as confused by the silence as Byleth and Dimitri.

Byleth shifted. Dimitri immediately drew her against his side. The weight of his arm across her shoulders comforted her as fear tugged at her chest.

“Will you not congratulate us?” Byleth asked, looking at each of their chosen confidents.

“Your Grace.” The Margrave’s deep voice sounded like a bellow after such a long pause. “I am so sorry, but this is impossible.”

Dimitri’s arm tensed around Byleth.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

The Margrave and Manfred exchanged a look. Seteth saw it, and his face set in grim determination as he stepped forward. Byleth recognised that expression. It was the one that meant Seteth knew someone was about to get hurt, and he could do nothing to prevent it, but by the goddess he would try.

“Your Grace,” Seteth said, reaching out to take her arm. He gently pulled her away from Dimitri. Byleth looked over her shoulder to see Dimitri’s arm drop uselessly by his side, his fist balled, as he stared at the gathered men in disbelief.

“Your Grace,” Seteth repeated quietly, as though he wished to speak only to her, “I do not want to cause you distress, but the Margrave is correct. This is impossible.”

“Why?” Dimitri demanded. All eyes turned to him. Byleth could see his frustration in his furrowed brow and the fighting stance he had assumed. “You both say it is impossible, but why?”

“Your Majesty,” the Margrave said, “you are newly crowned king. King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, which now covers all of Fódlan. And Byleth…she has been appointed archbishop of the Church of Seiros.”

“And so together we will be able to change Fódlan for the better,” Dimitri said. “We are the leaders of the two most important institutions on the continent.”

“Exactly,” the Margrave said.

“That explains nothing,” Dimitri ground out.

“Your Majesty,” Manfred interjected quietly, “your coronation marks a new era. For the first time since the War of the Eagle and Lion, Fódlan exists as a single nation. This will necessarily involve great change, and no doubt many things that people have considered law will be overturned. However, one thing must remain. The Church of Seiros has always, even in times of cooperation, been separate to the governments of this continent. The church and the states have co-existed, supported each other, and worked together, but they have never been one.”

“That is nonsense,” Dimitri said. He had begun to hit his leg with his fist repeatedly, a tick that Byleth knew indicated his growing exasperation. “The Church of Seiros is officially sanctioned by the Kingdom. The Empire was created by the church!”

“Your Majesty,” Seteth said, “the church acknowledges and endorses rulers, but it must retain its independence. And the state must maintain its authority. One is faith, the other is law. Although they may have influence over each other, surely you can see that if they were brought together through a marriage between you and Her Grace, then the result would be the tyranny that you fought so hard to destroy?”

The longer Byleth listened to them speak, the more nauseous she felt. With every new word, a chill leached into her bones. These were all things she hadn’t thought of. All things she had not realised.

“Ridiculous.”

Byleth startled at the new voice.

“Look at them,” Felix continued, gesturing to Dimitri and Byleth. “They’re both turning white. Are you really going to prevent them from being together because of a rule that has never been observed? We all know that the church has interfered with the nations and vice versa. They have never been separate.”

“If you will not defend the basic tenants of power and freedom, you will make a poor duke, Felix,” the Margrave said.

“This is not about power and freedom,” Felix replied shortly, crossing his arms. “This is about two people. The two people who saved the church and the Kingdom.”

“Your Majesty,” Manfred said, laying a hand on Felix’s arm to silence him, “let me put it to you this way. Your wife is head of the Church of Seiros. A person comes to you, a person who is of a different religion, a different nation. They request permission to build a meeting house in a particular location. You deny that request based on some danger related to the proposed site. Perhaps it is ground that sinks or floods easily. Meanwhile, a new church is built on a nearby site that does not have the same issues. Regardless of what they have been told, what will that person believe?”

Byleth’s heart sank. She looked up at Dimitri. The anger had disappeared from his face, replaced with disbelief. He understood too.

“Or perhaps for whatever reason you veto a law that, if passed, would also limit the interests of the church.”

Dimitri held up a hand for Manfred to stop. He turned away from them all. There was a heavy silence as he crossed to the window and rested his hands on the ledge.

“You understand, Your Majesty,” Manfred said. “You will be forever compromised by your relationship to Her Grace. You will never be perceived as impartial or just. Every decision you make, regardless of its reason, will be seen as bowing to the whims of the church.”

“I know that you have great dreams for Fódlan, Your Majesty,” the Margrave added. “If you marry Her Grace, you will be placing a barrier in your way.”

It was all too much. Byleth’s heart ached to see Dimitri hunched alone by the window, all the pride she had so recently admired crushed. She wanted to go to him, but Seteth still held her arm, preventing her from doing so.

“So you are telling me,” Dimitri said softly, “that I must choose between Byleth and my integrity as sovereign?”

“You must decide what is more important,” Manfred replied. “Your own desires or the future of Fódlan.”

In that moment, Byleth hated Manfred. She wished she had the Sword at her waist, so that she could draw it and destroy him for saying such things. Didn’t he see that Dimitri had sacrificed enough? Didn’t he understand that Dimitri was the future of Fódlan?

And hadn’t she lost enough? The war had taken so much from her. It had taken her father, years of her life, her independence and future. Why should Dimitri be taken from her too?

Dimitri turned back to face them. His face was blank, covered with the detached mask that she recognised from those times she had seen him as sovereign. As judge of his subjects or as the Saviour King.

“You have made yourselves clear,” he said. “I regret that this could not be a more joyous conversation. If you will excuse yourselves, I will see you at the coronation ball.”

Manfred was quick to bow and disappear down the stairs. Seteth hesitated, then released Byleth and followed. The Margrave bowed deeply to Dimitri, and cast a pitying glance at Byleth.

Felix did not move straight away. He looked from Byleth to Dimitri with a trace of sympathy, before going to Dimitri and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Your old man would have been proud today,” he said.

Then Felix was gone, leaving Byleth alone with the king.

It felt as though a large chasm had opened between them. Greater than the one that had existed when they were first reunited in the ruins of the monastery. Byleth did not know how to cross it. She felt scared and confused, as though her entire world had been yanked out from under her feet once again.

Dimitri looked up at Byleth. For a moment his mask remained in place, and he was harsh and unmoved. Then it fell away and he crumbled before her eyes, a shadowy weight falling on his shoulders. The agony of bearing it was written on his face.

Byleth rushed to him.

Wishing she could hold on forever, Byleth threw her arms around Dimitri. He clung just as desperately to her. Byleth could feel the shudder of his supressed sobs. She rubbed his back, wishing she could absorb his pain so he no longer had to suffer. He deserved to be free of that.

“Why must everything, always, be taken away from me?” Dimitri whispered, his fingers digging into her waist.

“You know they are right, Dimitri,” Byleth said. She almost choked on the words. “What they said is true.”

“Then I won’t be king.”

Byleth inhaled sharply. She drew back from Dimitri, searching out his face. It was streaked with tears. He would not meet her eyes. All his strength was gone, replaced with a shadow of that lost man, whom she had encountered in the rain all those months ago.

Byleth gently wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“We both know that is not an option,” she said. “Today you were crowned king. You were born to do this work. To abandon it now would destroy you.”

Dimitri grasped Byleth’s hands in his and rested his forehead against hers. Byleth closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. Memorising his scent, his warmth, his closeness. Because she understood what their most trusted advisors had said, and she knew that she could not endanger Dimitri’s position as king. She could not give people a reason to doubt him. And so memory would be all that was left to her.

“Must you be archbishop?” Dimitri breathed.

Byleth’s breath caught. Sothis, how she wished the task had fallen to someone else.

“Rhea entrusted this work to me,” she said, her voice cracking. “We have both fought so hard to get to this place. We gave everything to free Fódlan. How can we stop now?”

“But I love you, Byleth. I love you more than life itself.”

Byleth broke her hands from his, raising them to hide her face as her tears broke free.

Dimitri gathered her in his arms and drew her to the bench beside the far wall. He sat down and pulled her against him, kissing her hair before tucking her head under his chin. As he held her, Byleth silently cursed everyone and everything she could think of—Rhea, the church, Edelgard, Seteth, the crown. Her heart cracked a little more with each one. She knew what had to be done, and she knew that Dimitri did too. This was far larger than themselves. After so long, they stood on the brink of leading Fódlan to a future without fear, divisions, or prejudice. It was everything they had worked for. To abandon that work now, for the sake of their own desires, was wrong.

So Byleth continued to curse them all, holding onto Dimitri’s arm with both hands as though it would prevent him from drifting away.

When her tears subsided, the sun had begun to wane. Byleth leaned her head against Dimitri’s chest as she looked out the window.

“You have to go,” she croaked.

Dimitri’s arms tightened. “I can’t,” he said.

Byleth bit her lip. She allowed herself a moment more, then pushed against Dimitri’s embrace. He reluctantly let her go. She faced him as she sat up. With a deep breath, she drew the sapphire ring from her finger, from the place it had occupied for mere hours.

“Promise me that you will never stop chasing your dream,” Byleth said as she held the ring out to Dimitri. “If you do, this will be for nothing.”

Byleth finally looked up. Dimitri was studying her, and for a long time said nothing. Then he pulled her mother’s ring from his little finger. He clenched it in his fist.

“You told me once that I could atone for my sins,” he said. “When you told me that…you saved me, Byleth. You drew me back from death itself. I promise you, with everything that I am, I will never stop making things right until the day I die.”

Dimitri dropped the ring in Byleth’s palm, exchanging it for the sapphire one. Byleth sniffled, fighting back new tears. She reached up and caressed Dimitri’s face, then leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Byleth pushed herself to her feet and fled down the stairs of the Tower, holding her mother’s ring tightly in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene needed a whole chapter, there was just so much to cover. And I wanted to give our couple a little bit of fluff before I cruelly tore them apart.


	5. Splintered Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving a visitor, unpleasant memories drive Felix into words he regrets. Dedue and Dimitri try to help.

**I: Government Offices, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)   
Afternoon**

Felix groaned as he saw the latest person to knock on his door was another lost supplier for the Founding Day celebrations. The man stood there with a confused look on his face as Felix dropped his pen and rubbed both hands over his face. When he let them fall to the desk again, he was able to face the man without yelling.

“Third door on the left,” Felix said between clenched teeth. “We hired someone to receive the deliveries. It says so on the paperwork.”

The man lifted the paper in his hand and glanced over it again. His eyes widened as he presumably found the delivery instructions. He quickly bowed and disappeared.

_I gave up my sword for this,_ Felix thought as he yanked open the desk drawer and grabbed a new bottle of ink. _I gave up my sword to plan parties._

Felix unscrewed the lid of the jar and poured the dark blue liquid into his inkwell.

These days, Felix could add numbers quickly in his mind. He was aware of the price of everything. He could figure out the labour involved, how long the work would take, where materials could be sourced. If the crops produced in Fraldarius territory would feed its inhabitants throughout winter. Then there were the speculative questions. How each noble in Faerghus would react to every inclusion and exclusion. When the church should be consulted. Whether the boar would be able to defend a decision without compromising his moral code.

It was all dull and irritating.

Nothing at all like the simple weight of a sword in one’s hand and a decent opponent to spar with. There was no abstract in battle. No ifs or buts, no hidden agendas or political manoeuvring. With a sword in hand, life’s guiding principle was reduced to four short words: kill or be killed.

Felix sighed. This ill humour was likely to pass quickly, like the last one. He tried to return his attention to his work.

“Felix?”

The moment that singsong voice echoed in the corridor, Felix’s whole body tensed. He rose to his feet, his mind snatching at the calm that had almost found him, now rapidly retreating. Felix had known she arrived today, but he had not expected her to search him out here, in the depths of the castle, where secretaries and scribes scuttled about with their oversized spectacles and monstrous books. But then, this had been his father’s office too. She knew the way.

Evangeline Grace Fraldarius drifted into the room with elegance surpassing the best dancers at the Mittelfrank Opera. She had clearly taken the time to refresh herself after the journey from Fraldarius territory. Her raven hair was swept into a style usually reserved for dinner, drawing attention to the way her dress bared her shoulders. Felix flinched inwardly as he realised he was going to have to endure another court gathering where people passed endless comment on how the Dowager Duchess bucked the trend of that term. What did they expect? Of course she did, when her husband had been more than a decade older than her.

And those comments would be followed, no doubt, by how well her devotion to the crown honoured that husband. As Felix held out his hand and his mother rested hers atop it, he felt the chill of the silver band she wore to represent her faithfulness to a dead man. Felix took a slow breath to calm the disgust rising in his chest.

Evangeline smiled lovingly at Felix, allowing him to bow over her hand before she reached out to embrace him. She kissed each of his cheeks before drawing back to study him.

“My beautiful boy,” she said. “I expected that I would find you hard at work. How do you fare?”

“This celebration is the most rancid pile of horse manure I have ever encountered,” Felix replied.

Evangeline laughed.

“I hope you don’t say things like that to Dimitri,” she said.

“Dimitri appreciates my honesty. He needs it from at least one member of his court.”

Felix dropped back into his chair as his mother was seated. He picked up his pen and glanced over the letter to the Baron Dominic he had been composing, hoping that she would recognise it as a sign that he was too busy to talk.

As usual, she did not.

“Then at least assure me that you do not speak like that in front of Mariet,” Evangeline said.

Felix clenched his fist around his pen and glanced up at her. She was watching him with great expectation.

“What do you mean?” Felix asked.

Evangeline blinked.

“Mariet,” she said. “That lovely girl you brought home last month.”

Felix put his pen down and laced his fingers together. It would be best to smother this conversation as quickly as possible.

“I know who Mariet is, mother,” he said. “But I ended it with her three weeks ago. Right after she visited, in fact. I’m sure I told you.”

His mother scoffed, destroying Felix’s hope that she would accept she had simply forgotten.

“Told me? Don’t try to fool me, Felix,” Evangeline said. “I know you don’t like to discuss your relationships with me, but the way you fawned over Mariet made your attachment excessively obvious. I saw you take the flowers to her room.”

Felix looked down at his desk, memories of the sentiments and pain of that visit surfacing. So what if he had liked her? In the end, it had just been one more thing to make him angry. He had liked Mariet well enough, yes, but her visit had been humiliating. Its crowning glory: when Mariet confessed she was pregnant to a nameless cobbler and wanted to marry quickly in order to disguise her misdemeanour. As though she believed Felix could bear what a pregnancy of two months meant to an innocent relationship of four.

“Please, mother,” Felix said, shuffling the documents on his desk to find the ledger of Dominic’s holdings. “Don’t mention her to me again.”

“Felix?”

Felix shoved the documents to one side, giving up, as Dimitri strode into the room with his eye focused on another bloody piece of paper.

“Can you remind me…”

The boar stopped speaking when he raised his eye and saw Evangeline. He broke into a grin as she stood and curtsied.

“Your Majesty,” Evangeline said, lifting a hand to her throat and casting her eyes to the ground. As though she had to show deference to a brat she had seen in swaddling clothes.

“Evangeline,” Dimitri replied, scrunching the paper in his fist and reaching out to encourage Evangeline to rise. “I was not told that you had arrived. Though, of course, you came here first. I hope you are encouraging Felix to take a rest.”

“Are you really saying that while you barge in here with more work?” Felix asked. He crossed to Dimitri and snatched the paper from him. “What is it this time?”

“Nothing that cannot wait,” Dimitri said, snatching it back. “You should spend some time with your mother. It has been weeks since you saw each other.”

“And yet not long enough.”

Felix regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. They had only stemmed from his annoyance at being questioned about Mariet. Nonetheless, he saw hurt bloom in his mother’s eyes. She attempted to cover it with a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri said to Evangeline, grimacing.

“Don’t apologise for me, boar king,” Felix interrupted.

He had meant that as the beginning of his own apology, but the words sounded too harsh and the apology itself stuck in his throat.

“My son is right, Your Majesty,” Evangeline said before he could free it. “You should not apologise for his foul mood or his behaviour towards his parents. No one should take the weight of that from him.”

Shame curled in Felix’s gut as his mother turned away from him. Why did he still feel the need to speak as though he despised everyone? He knew his mother cared about him. And he cared about her. But her commitment to his father’s stupid ideals and her constant attempts to force him into them was infuriating. And that’s why her questions about Mariet made him angry–because they were another attempt to corner him. Was it any wonder his anger escaped in pitiful accusations and snide remarks?

Dimitri cast a glance at Felix. Felix shrugged, at a loss as to how to fix things. Noting it, Dimitri held his arm out to Evangeline.

“I fear we have interrupted Felix in the middle of a trying task and so frustrated him,” he said. “Please, Evangeline, won’t you join Gustave and me in the courtyard? We are finalising the seating for the Founding Day eve dinner, and your insight would be invaluable. Gustave, although he knows just about everyone in Faerghus, has a limited understanding of their…delicacies.”

Evangeline took Dimitri’s arm with a pointed glare at Felix.

“I would be delighted, Your Majesty. I am always glad to be of use to someone.”

Felix wished his mother would just stab him in the stomach with a dagger, twist it, and be done.

**II: Training yards, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Evening**

Felix’s muscles complained under the weight of his sword. He didn’t care. It had only been two hours, and he would happily do two more before he would give in. He lifted his blade again, staring down the dummy he was facing. Its button eyes returned his glare, but without the fury Felix knew his own carried. Fury that soured his stomach until it turned poisonous.

Felix launched himself at the dummy with a cry. His sword cut clean through it, from the right shoulder to the left hip. The pieces fell to the ground as Felix followed through with the swing, landing hard with his sword pointing towards his toe. The power of his Crest faded.

“Shit,” Felix muttered, straightening.

After his mother’s visit, Felix’s day had rose to meet his ire. Rowe had arrived in Fhirdiad at the same time as Evangeline and demanded to see Felix immediately. Somewhere amongst all his chatter there had been four or five threats to Dimitri’s crown, two to Felix’s lands, and one to poor innocent Ashe.

Perhaps that would not have been an issue on another day, but on the same day he had, once again, disappointed and upset his mother, it fuelled frustration into the rage that now churned through his entire body.

“Felix.”

Felix turned towards the voice, too weary of hearing his own name called to respond verbally. The dog of Duscur was standing by the low fence surrounding the training yard, watching Felix with a frown.

“What do you want?” Felix asked as he sheathed his sword.

“You seem like a man keen to expel his demons,” Dedue said.

Felix rolled his eyes.

“Goddess, it’s intelligent,” he growled.

Dedue shook his head before vaulting over the fence.

“Allow me to be of assistance,” he said, removing his uniform jacket and hanging it on a fence post.

Felix raised an eyebrow.

“In what way?” he asked.

“I possess little talent with the sword, but if it is exhaustion you are chasing, brawling will serve the same purpose. At the least, it will provide you with a more responsive opponent than that.”

Dedue pointed to the destroyed dummy. Felix unstrapped his sword and tossed it aside.

“You’re right about that,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He probably should have changed out of his suit and into training rags before coming to the grounds, but it was too late now.

Dedue copied Felix’s actions, pushing his sleeves up to reveal arms more muscular than Felix’s could ever be. For a moment, Felix considered backing out. He still remembered the thorough beating Dedue had given him while they were students. But his pride would not allow it, so he spread his feet and rolled his shoulders.

“Please tap out if I hurt you,” Dedue said.

“Are you assuming a victory?” Felix snapped back.

Dedue shook his head as he lunged.

It was a short bout with a clear winner. Within moments, Felix was on his back in the dirt, staring up at the dark clouds in a daze. He blinked, recovering the thoughts that had been knocked from his mind when his head hit the ground.

Dedue appeared above him and reached out a hand. Faced with little choice, Felix took it. Dedue pulled him to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Dedue asked.

“Fine,” Felix said as he found his balance and spun to face Dedue. He lifted his fists. “Let’s go again, dog.”

Dedue’s expression hardened.

“You won’t beat me in a match of strength,” he said.

“I suppose everyone has to be good at something,” Felix shot back. “Shame your talent reveals the simplicity of your brain.”

Felix ducked in low, hoping to get under Dedue’s reach and land a blow. He was successful, but Dedue reacted as though a fly had landed on him. He shoved Felix back. For a moment they circled and assessed each other. Then Dedue gestured Felix forward. Taking the bait, Felix threw a punch, but Dedue lifted his arm to guard. Felix’s next attempts met a similar fate, and all Felix gained was a few inches of ground.

Just when he was beginning to wonder if Dedue was playing with him, Dedue threw a blow towards Felix’s stomach. Felix moved, but as he dodged Dedue’s other fist flew towards his face. Felix tried to twist away. He was too slow.

Dedue’s fist caught Felix in the left eye. Felix stumbled backwards, biting his tongue against the howl of pain and vulgar curses that came to mind.

“Felix, are you all right?”

Felix swung his arm to fend Dedue away as he pressed his other hand against his injured eye.

“Don’t be stupid,” he swore. “We were sparring, weren’t we?”

“No, I must apologise. I let my anger get the better of me.”

Dedue’s confession made Felix want to laugh.

“You should have that looked at,” Dedue added. “Let me take you to the hospice.”

“It’ll be a bruise at most.”

“Nonetheless.”

Felix straightened and turned towards Dedue, one hand still covering his eye.

“Don’t think this means we’re finished,” Felix said.

Dedue was still a moment, then crossed the yard and picked up Felix’s sword.

“We should end it here,” he said. “You should be visiting your mother.”

Felix grabbed his sword from Dedue, the red monster rising in him once more.

“You’ve been speaking to the boar, haven’t you?”

Dedue sighed.

“I wish to give you some advice, Felix, although I am unsure of its welcome,” he said. “In the past ten years, all of us have lost people. His Majesty and I have no living family. You lost your brother and your father. Sylvain buried Ingrid and Miklan. Perhaps you should consider treasuring the people you have left.”

“Goddess, what a self-righteous little cur you are,” Felix snapped. “I don’t know what Annette sees in you.”

Dedue’s expression darkened. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at Felix. A bolt of fear ripped through Felix. He knew Dedue could kill with one well-placed blow. He had seen the man do it on the battlefield.

But instead of hitting him, Dedue stepped backwards. He eyed Felix with disdain and pity as he spoke.

“Clearly more than she sees in you.”

The man from Duscur turned and left the yard, grabbing his jacket with one hand as he went.

Felix turned his face towards the sky, closing his eyes.

“You bloody, stupid fool,” he moaned.

**III: Guest Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Morning**

Felix stared at his reflection in the mirror opposite from where he sat on his bed. He had hoped that somewhere between bathing and dressing, the deep violet bruise around his left eye would disappear. But it had not. Now he had to, somehow, get through the next two weeks without his mother seeing him.

Dropping his head and resting it on his hands, Felix blew out a breath. At least Dedue had managed to knock the worst of the anger from him. But its remnants remained, even if they were momentarily overwhelmed by the shame and humiliation of the past day. He had behaved like a complete fool.

A knock on his bedroom door signalled that it was time to meet the boar for breakfast. Wishing he had not agreed to these stupid meetings, Felix stood and grabbed his coat. When he opened the door, the maid’s smile gave way to surprise as she looked up at him. Felix pushed past her, pulling his coat on as he turned down the hallway.

“Sir, do you need…” the maid began, taking quick steps to get ahead of him.

“I know the way to the breakfast room,” Felix grumbled.

The maid stopped and dropped into a curtesy as he passed her.

The breakfast room was not far from the guest quarters. Felix arrived within a few minutes. He pushed the door open with his elbow, still engaged in the task of buttoning his coat.

“Felix, good…”

Dimitri trailed off as Felix looked up. The boar’s eye widened. His reaction surprised Felix, since Dimitri had seen him with injuries much worse than this. Then Dimitri jerked his head towards the window. Felix’s mother was standing there.

“Felix! Goddess, what happened?” Evangeline exclaimed as she scurried over to him.

Her eyes were clouded with concern as she cupped her hand over Felix’s cheek, gently turning his head so she could see the marks blossoming around his eye.

“It’s nothing, mother,” Felix said, taking hold of his mother’s wrist and pulling her hand away. “I was training and it happened.”

Evangeline bit her lip. Felix waited for the barrage of questions, but Dimitri pushed between them and took Evangeline’s arm.

“Please, let’s be seated,” he said. “I’m sure Felix has already been to a healer. Right?”

Dimitri glanced at Felix over his shoulder. Felix’s tongue stumbled over itself as he answered.

“Of course.”

Evangeline stopped dead and looked back at Felix with narrowed eyes.

“If you think your own mother doesn’t know when you are lying, then you are a complete idiot,” she said.

Felix threw his hands in the air.

“All right, I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s just a bruise. It will clear up in a few days.”

Evangeline crossed her arms. Dimitri backed away.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but if my son will not take himself to a healer, I must bring one here,” she said.

“By all means, Evangeline,” Dimitri said. “There should be a footman outside…”

“No, I will go personally,” Evangeline said. “If I am with this boy a moment longer, I fear I’ll box him around the ears.”

Felix’s mother marched out the door. As it swung closed behind her, Dimitri leaned against one of the chairs, crossing his arms across its high back.

“I’ve said it before, but I knew your temper had to come from somewhere,” he said.

Felix dropped into a chair and threw his head back against it, closing his eyes.

“Seiros, Dimitri, not now,” he groaned.

Dimitri chuckled. There was a long silence and then the sound of porcelain being rearranged. Felix opened his eyes to see the boar sitting next to him, preparing tea. When he finished, he held a cup out to Felix.

“What was she doing here?” Felix asked, ignoring the offer.

Dimitri, knowing better than to insist after so many years of friendship, lifted the cup to his own lips. He took a long sip before answering.

“I thought it would give you time to talk.”

“I don’t need to talk to her.”

Dimitri shrugged, letting the comment fall aside.

“Who hit you?” he asked instead.

Felix looked away. He couldn’t lie to Dimitri, but he didn’t want to tell the truth either.

“Fine,” Dimitri said. “But Felix, I really can’t have you looking like this for Founding Day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll wear powder or something.”

“Felix.”

The seriousness in Dimitri’s voice made Felix shift in his seat. He didn’t like having heartfelt conversations with Dimitri. He didn’t like having them with anyone. Especially when they were about himself. And he could sense the boar was preparing to launch directly into one of that particular type, when Felix had nowhere to run.

“I appreciate everything that you have done since my coronation,” Dimitri said. “You have supported me in every decision and action, despite how little I deserve it. I want to repay the favour, if you will allow me. And I am not opposed to dispensing justice to someone who hurt my friend.”

Felix snorted.

“You may find that difficult in this instance,” he muttered.

Dimitri frowned. Deciding he would let the boar ponder that one, Felix reached to the teapot and poured himself a cup.

“Can you invent an excuse to send me away before my mother comes back?” he asked after a swig of tea.

Dimitri sighed and drummed his fingers on the table.

“I need you to explain the seating arrangements to the Master of Ceremonies,” he said at length. “Immediately. The charts are on my desk.”

Sometimes, Felix wondered if Dimitri had learned a thing or two about spite from him. He was just getting too damned good at it. Felix almost had to admire it as he stood and bowed theatrically.

“I accept my punishment with thanks,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long, mainly because I enjoyed writing from Felix’s POV so much. In this story I see Felix as someone who is beginning to settle into his role, but is still plagued by the anger that has defined him for so long. Hopefully I was able to capture that in this chapter.
> 
> The lack of present mothers in Three Houses drove me crazy and I am here to remedy it. Evangeline was a fun character to invent. Over time I’m hoping to explore a bit more of her and Felix’s relationship. There should be room for it in this mammoth I have taken on, because even though I have the basic plot mapped out to the end there is a lot of room for movement and angst-filled fun.
> 
> If you hadn’t guessed, Felix and Dedue’s B-support never took place in this version of the story. And I will leave the reason Dedue gave Felix a beating to your imaginations for now, although you may be able to guess from the chapter.


	6. The Shadows of Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri must meet with a rival as Sylvain sets out for Fhirdiad with his father. Founding Day is fast approaching and the pressure to meet expectations is heavy.

**I: Audience Hall, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)   
Noon**

“Your Majesty!”

As Dimitri stood and took a step forwards, Count Rowe sank to a deep bow, spreading his arms wide. The movement caused his rich cloak to fling out behind him, displaying the intricate pattern woven into the red fabric. Dimitri could tell the cloak was made from fine Leicester wool, and the fur collar appeared to be winter ermine. Dimitri’s uncle would have liked it. And it must have cost more than it took to feed a large family for an entire year.

Dimitri smiled at Rowe and held out his hand. The Count hurried forward and grasped it before bowing over Dimitri’s signet ring. As Rowe rose, he kept hold of Dimitri’s hand, eying the crest carved into the lapis stone set in the face of the ring.

“Is there a problem?” Dimitri asked.

Rowe released Dimitri’s hand and stepped back, executing a quick bow of apology.

“Of course not, Sire,” he said.

“You appear overly interested in my ring,” Dimitri said.

Rowe reddened. Dimitri was glad of the reaction. It confirmed what Felix had told him that morning: Rowe was bold and a schemer, but quickly cowed when called out.

“Forgive me, Sire,” Rowe said. “It is only that it has been such a long time since I saw that ring on the hand of a legitimate ruler of Faerghus.”

Dimitri turned his back on Rowe.

“I have been wearing it for more than a year now,” he said as he stepped up to the throne.

“Of course, Sire, but this is my first formal audience with Your Majesty.”

Dimitri nodded, ignoring Rowe’s error. This was not a formal audience. Rowe had abruptly demanded the meeting after failing to intimidate Felix. The request had forced Dimitri to call Felix back from his meeting with the Master of Ceremonies to devise a way to handle it.

Dimitri swept his cape over one arm. A page rushed forward and took the weight of it from Dimitri, rapidly arranging it over the arm of the throne as Dimitri was seated. At the same time, another page placed a narrow wooden chair in front of the throne, but a little to the left. Both pages retreated as Rowe took the seat, forced by its design to sit perfectly upright and still, and its position to turn his head towards Dimitri. All traditions of which the origins were lost to time, but were clearly designed to make the visitor uncomfortable.

“Do I meet your expectations?” Dimitri asked, feeling little sympathy for Rowe’s discomfort. His own was just as great.

Rowe’s eyes whipped up to Dimitri’s face. He blinked, apparently surprised speechless by the question. As Dimitri had hoped. It told him that although Rowe was quick to act, he was not quick to think.

Unfortunately, that was something they had in common.

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” Rowe finally asked.

“I know I am not my father,” Dimitri said. “I have his height and his hair, but perhaps not much else. I know that my manner is not as regal, my character not as charming, and, on the authority of several women at court, my face not as handsome. And then there is this.”

Dimitri tapped his eye patch.

Rowe blanched.

“It is but a proud emblem of your victory in the war to liberate Faerghus,” Rowe stuttered.

Dimitri shook his head.

“You are mistaken. That is what people say now, of course. It doesn’t do to be reminded that your king is a murderer.”

Dimitri clasped his hands together as if in prayer. The action made him feel like a fool, but he pushed on with the rehearsed speech.

“But every day,” he continued, “I beg the forgiveness of the goddess. My atonement is to lead my people to peace and prosperity. I must spend each waking hour working to improve their lives so that they do not suffer, and every moment of repose dreaming of that better world.”

Rowe’s face twisted further into confusion with each word. Dimitri marvelled at the easy effect a little theatricality, albeit poorly delivered, was having. Clearly Felix had known what it was talking about when he told Dimitri to nock one of Sylvain’s arrows.

“And that is why,” Dimitri said, swinging to his feet and stepping to the right of the throne, “I am prepared to destroy anyone who stands in the way of that peace.”

Dimitri reached out and clasped his hand around the shaft of Areadbhar. Whenever Dimitri received guests, the Hero’s Relic was displayed on a stand beside the throne as a symbol of Dimitri’s authority. The lance began to glow as Dimitri called on his Crest. That was not something Felix had put in the script, but it seemed appropriate.

Dimitri glanced behind him to see Rowe on his feet. Etiquette forbade the Count from remaining seated while his sovereign was standing, but it did not demand that he retreat three feet backwards.

“You understand, do you not?” Dimitri said, releasing Areadbhar. Its light faded and the weapon once more took on a dead appearance. “We all fought so hard and long for the freedom we now enjoy. I wish to ensure that all citizens of Faerghus enjoy the fruits of that great labour.”

Rowe bowed and nodded.

“A most admirable ambition, Sire,” he said.

Dimitri smiled at Rowe again. It was to signal to the Count that Dimitri had finished, but hopefully it would also throw him off balance.

“I am so glad we see eye to eye,” Dimitri said with a note of warning.

Dimitri gestured Rowe towards his chair as he repeated the farce with his cape. When they were both seated, Dimitri leaned forward.

“Please, tell me about these housing projects,” he said. “Duke Fraldarius was singing their praises.”

When Rowe had finally left and Dimitri was alone in the audience chamber (save for the omnipresent pages), he leaned his head against the back of the throne and closed his eyes. There were a few minutes until his next appointment. Dimitri’s personal secretary, the ever efficient Adele, had strongly suggested during their morning briefing that Dimitri take advantage of every quiet moment over the next week. After seeing what was mapped out for him until after Founding Day, Dimitri had realised that he would have to take her advice, or he would not sleep at all.

But the throne was not a good place to rest. The moment Dimitri closed his eyes, visions of his father rose in his mind.

The memories were as clear as the day he had formed them. When he was ten years old, Dimitri’s father had suggested sitting in on a series of formal audiences with the heads of the noble families. King Lambert had been the focus of every room he entered, but that day the blue ceremonial cape and the golden crown had lent him extra power. Dimitri had watched in awe as his father became someone entirely different: a firm, but just ruler who listened with care and spoke with authority. To a child who knew what would one day be required of him, the man sitting on the throne had seemed like a god. A perfect being whose legacy could never be met.

Dimitri opened his eyes. He sat in that place, wore the same cape and crown, but he felt inadequate.

“Your Majesty.”

Dimitri looked towards the door to see Gustave standing there. The knight performed a slight bow.

“I have come to escort you to your next appointment,” he said.

Dimitri stood. He unclasped the cape from around his neck and accepted his more comfortable long coat from a page.

“I have told you, Gustave, it is not necessary for you to escort me everywhere,” Dimitri said as he adjusted the fur collar on the coat to cover the back of his neck.

Gustave did not respond. Dimitri crossed the audience chamber and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Rowe did not hurt me,” Dimitri said softly, so the pages didn’t hear. “You know he would have had a hard time doing so.”

Again, Gustave did not answer. And as much as Dimitri often found the knight’s overprotectiveness annoying, he could not fault him for it. Gustave was the only other person in this castle who knew what it was like to carry ghosts.

“Let’s go then,” Dimitri said in a more cheerful tone. “At least this next appointment should be pleasant. I hear Hilda accompanied her brother?”

Gustave nodded.

“If I may ask, Sire,” Gustave said as he fell into step just behind Dimitri, “how did the audience with Rowe go?”

Dimitri sighed.

“It’s hard to tell,” he said. “Felix was convinced that a show of aggression would convince him to back down. But it’s impossible to predict that man.”

“Surely once he is surrounded by the other nobles he will recognise his duty,” Gustave said.

Dimitri could not respond in the affirmative. He had seen too much of men and women and duty throughout the war to continue to believe in that.

“Well, they should all be here by tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “We shall see.”

**II: The Road to Fhirdiad  
Afternoon**

Sylvain pushed back the curtain that covered the carriage window with one hand. This far north, there were few buildings, besides the odd farmhouse or inn. The vast and barren landscape of late autumn stretched in all directions. The leaves had fallen and before too long the ground would be blanketed with snow. Then the tussles with the Sreng would cease for another year. And there would be no escaping his grim reality by indulging in the mindless butchery of the battlefield.

Just as there was no escaping the coming pageantry of the 435th Founding Day of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

“Did you really need me to come?” Sylvain asked, falling back against the carriage seat.

Sylvain’s father glanced at him over his spectacles. There was a myriad of questions in that one look, along with a great deal of indulgence. The Margrave Gautier clapped the book he was reading shut and rested it on his knees.

“Your question surprises me, Sylvain,” his father said as he removed his spectacles. He folded them and slipped them into their case with neat efficiency. “You used to enjoy going to Fhirdiad. Dimitri and Felix both expressed their desire to see you.”

Sylvain groaned and stared back out the window.

“That’s the problem.”

Sylvain had successfully avoided his friends for five months now. He had grown tired of the pitying looks and the excess consideration. Especially from Dimitri. But as a member of the nobility, it was impossible to avoid the king forever. Sooner or later something required a court visit.

“It would make me happy if you would reconcile with them,” his father said. “I do not like the distance that has grown between the three of you. One day you will be Margrave and called upon to support the king’s rule. If you do not make peace with Dimitri, it will make that work difficult.”

Sylvain did not answer. His father spoke freely of the day when he was no longer around, but Sylvain would rather pretend it would never come. Even though he had noticed the grey hairs on his father’s head and the lines on his face. Things that were obvious to a son terrified of his future loss and gain.

Having watched both Dimitri and Felix suffer the deaths of their fathers, Sylvain was doing his best to make sure that the Margrave was not claimed by the violent, premature deaths that had taken Lambert and Rodrigue. Sylvain’s father would die safely in his bed at a grand old age. After Sylvain was capable of overcoming that bereavement, and old and wise enough to take the title.

“Sylvain.”

The tone in his father’s voice compelled Sylvain to turn away from the landscape. The Margrave wore that unique look of concern, only for him. Sylvain had never seen it directed towards his mother, Miklan, or anyone else. Even Dimitri.

“I know that you still grieve for Ingrid,” his father said.

The sickness ignited. It always started in the same way. A stabbing pain that originated in Sylvain’s gut and crept through his body to his stomach. At that point, the nausea commenced. His lungs constricted and his heart began to race.

Sylvain closed his eyes and leaned forward, clenching his hands together to stop them from trembling. Her wide, dull eyes stared up at him still.

A sound startled Sylvain. He opened his eyes to see his father transfer to the seat beside him. The Margrave rested a hand on Sylvain’s back and began to rub between his shoulders in a familiar and comforting gesture.

“You must accept her death, son,” he said. “You cannot allow this loss to define you. And you cannot continue to blame His Majesty. You know there is nothing he could have done to prevent what happened.”

Sylvain shrugged his shoulders. His father’s hand fell away.

“I think we should add some extra soldiers to the guard for winter,” Sylvain said, fixing his gaze on the decorative scrolls in the brocade of the seat opposite. “The incursions from the Sreng were bad last season. They might be gathering strength to hit us when we do not expect it.”

There was a long silence. Sylvain followed the pathways the scrolls created across the fabric with his eyes, becoming lost in their senseless maze.

“If you think it is necessary,” his father finally said. “Is it something I should raise at the table?”

Sylvain shook his head.

“Let’s not bother them with it. Fraldarius might think we need more troops, but we should have enough. It will be a good opportunity for the new captains. I could oversee their training for a few weeks.”

“You’ve always hated being at the patrol stations in winter.”

“I don’t want to grow sloppy during the frost. The Sreng never let themselves fall out of form. If I am lazy, it will make things easier for them.”

“No one could call you lazy, Sylvain. You ride every morning and train every afternoon.”

As his eyes reached the edge of the seat, Sylvain wondered if his father wanted to add to that. He waited for the judgement and the censure. He knew his father had intervened when he had ordered Camille home in nothing but a dressing robe.

But the rebuke never came.

“I think even His Majesty would agree that you deserve some rest after the season.”

Sylvain looked at his father. The Margrave relaxed back against the seat and opened his book once more. He scanned the page with nonchalance as he plucked his spectacles from their case and replaced them on his nose.

The Margrave Victor Antonin Gautier. He was a difficult man to understand. For Sylvain, there was no one kinder in the whole world. His father had given him everything he had desired from the moment he was born. Whenever Sylvain was disciplined or punished, it had always been with love and tenderness. He had never been given cause to question his parents’ adoration.

And then there was Miklan.

It made no sense that a man like his father would treat his eldest with such disregard. That he could be so good to one son and endlessly cruel to the other. That he would blame a child for a birth trait he could not change, but absolve a man of his chosen deeds.

“Father,” Sylvain said.

The Margrave looked up again, an eyebrow raised.

Sylvain stared down at his hands. They were ugly, riddled with callouses and smalls scars from a wealth of scratches and cuts. They were hands that had seen scores of battles. That had delivered death to nameless strangers. That had administered justice to a brother.

Hands that had tangled in golden hair and danced across pale skin. That had been held tight by smaller ones without judgement or condemnation.

But that had failed in their single most important task. Who was he to judge the actions of others?

“How long until we arrive at the inn?” Sylvain choked out.

**III: The King’s Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)   
Night **

Dimitri shrugged off his coat and threw it over the arm of the chair by the fire. There was a pile of paper as tall as him waiting on his desk. And by tomorrow, representatives from every noble house of Faerghus, as well as the former Alliance and Empire, would be gathered in Fhirdiad. There would be no time for these tasks then. They would have to be dealt with now.

Dimitri reached up to undo the top buttons of his shirt as he dropped into the desk chair. He reached for the first document. Was it possible there were still things to approve for the celebrations? Surely everything should have been finalised by now.

After putting put his signature to the document, Dimitri sorted it into the piles of completed work. He put down his pen and rolled up his sleeves. For some reason the air in his office was stifling, despite it being the beginning of winter.

Dimitri continued to work. The content of each successive document was more outlandish than the last. He did not know if it was his tired mind or just the normal labour of a king.

With each signature, temperature in the room grew warmer and Dimitri more agitated. The fur collar of his coat was damp with sweat.

“Why is the fire lit?” he demanded out loud.

The ash boy hurried across to the hearth.

“I’m s-sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “It was cold today.”

Dimitri shoved himself back from the desk, knocking over his chair as he stood.

“Don’t bore me with excuses,” he growled.

His voice didn’t sound like him. Dimitri checked himself, stopping short of the ash boy. But of course it didn’t sound like him–he hadn’t spoken.

Dimitri turned to see Sylvain standing by the door, dressed entirely in white. He lifted a hand towards Sylvain and was ashamed to see the black sleeve of his jacket. Why hadn’t he prepared mourning clothes? No wonder Sylvain hated him.

Sylvain turned his back on Dimitri and lifted his pen to the sympathy journal pinned to the door of the Castle Galatea. He did not take long to compose his message. Then he walked back down the steps from the door and threw the pen at Dimitri.

“You don’t deserve to write in it,” Sylvain said.

As true as that was, Dimitri felt himself drawn to the door. His hand shaking, he opened the journal to the next empty page and lifted the pen. But his mind blanked when he saw the two words Sylvain had written.

_My beloved._

Dimitri sank to his knees. All the tears for his amazing, perfect friend, the person who had stood so steadfast in the days after the Tragedy despite losing her betrothed, who had never blamed him for his failure, were dry. Guilt and shame competed for space in the chasm they had left behind.

“So you failed to protect Ingrid too.”

Even though Glenn’s voice was just a memory, it was so clear the knight could be standing beside Dimitri.

“I trusted her to you. You heard my dying words. My only thoughts were of her, and you sent her to battle that witch? You should have died. You know this. I shouldn’t have trusted you. You are not capable of protecting anyone. How can you call yourself…?”

Glenn’s voice morphed into that of Dimitri’s father. Dimitri felt dwarfed as he looked up at Lambert.

“…a king exists to serve his people.”

Lambert sat down on the steps beside Dimitri. He reached over and gently took the training sword out of Dimitri’s hand. Dimitri pouted, but was, as ever, unable to say no to his father. Lambert smiled and ruffled Dimitri’s hair.

“Serving your people requires much more than using a sword. It may be one of the more exciting skills to learn, but it should be the one you employ the least when ruling. And that is why you must attend your lessons and not sneak out here.”

Dimitri remembered this day. But what he had said next was not the question he wanted to ask now.

“How do you know when you are ready to be king?” he asked instead.

Lambert sighed and rubbed his chin.

“When you are king,” came the answer.

Dimitri frowned. That didn’t help him at all. And why was it still so hot?

Dimitri looked out across the landscape stretching before them and saw the flames. Their skeletal fingers grasped at the sky angrily.

“I cannot save them,” Dimitri said as the fire raced towards them.

“Who?” Lambert asked.

Dimitri gasped as he sat up in his bed. He was suffocating.

The freezing night rushed in to bathe his skin as Dimitri threw the blankets away. He shivered as it engulfed him. But at least he could breathe, he thought as he drank in air.

When his heart had stopped racing, Dimitri swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat straight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The dream had not been bad.

Dimitri scoffed as he admitted to himself that, actually, it had been rather pleasant. Paperwork, funerals, and being scolded by his father. By his usual standards, nothing terrifying at all. Though his younger self may beg to differ.

Nonetheless, a deep feeling of dread persisted in Dimitri’s gut.

If Dimitri’s madness had given him anything good, it was a better understanding of his fears. He knew why the dream had come. In a few short hours, the first real test of his reign would begin. A public trial of his ability to rule. There would be no deferring answers or seeking advice. No lengthy discussions about how to approach a situation.

And it was foolish, but it was the first time Dimitri would face his subjects in such an important setting without the sure and steady presence of Byleth behind him. He had agreed with his advisors that the archbishop’s presence was required at Garreg Mach for Founding Day. She must welcome people from every walk of life and former allegiance at the cathedral, the meeting point of the three territories now united.

Dimitri sighed as he reached out and tugged the bell cord near his bed. He wanted her here, beside him.

By the time Loup, the night footman assigned to the king’s quarters, knocked on his door, Dimitri was sitting in front of a fire he had resurrected from embers. A box of documents fetched from his office was open on the breakfast table.

“I am sorry to bother you,” Dimitri said softly to Loup.

Loup smiled as though he found the apology amusing. Barely sixteen, he was young enough to have suffered the war without seeing its blood and mess. Dimitri guessed that was the reason he was more cheerful than the other servants.

“I’ll return shortly with coffee and sweet buns,” Loup said, falling into routine. “Do you need anything else tonight?”

“Just that.”

Loup delivered a shaky bow and left.

Dimitri reached out and picked up the small leather pouch that lay on the breakfast table. As he drew the first document from the box and began to read, he ran his thumb over the leather, tracing the shape of the ring within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sympathy journal is an old custom in France. The bereaved family put a journal at their door for people to write messages of condolence and memories of the deceased.


	7. Between Two People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familiar faces arrive at Garreg Mach for the coming celebrations, while strangers flood the market at Fhirdiad. The eve of Founding Day brings challenges and conflict for Byleth and Annette.

**I: Advisory Room (Garreg Mach Monastery) | Founding Day eve  
Morning**

The morning of the eve of Founding Day was bright and clear. Byleth took it as a good omen. She knew how carefully Dimitri had planned for the celebrations. Not even the fickle late autumn weather had the right to cause things to go awry.

And neither did Byleth, though it seemed likely that was exactly what she was about to do.

Byleth had risen early to write Dimitri and encourage him, as both the archbishop and as his friend. But after an hour she was staring angrily at a blank page. The words would not form under her pen.

Since Dimitri’s coronation, he and Byleth had written to each other as regularly as their duties allowed. In the first months, their letters had been several pages long and filled with a wealth of contemplation and personal news. But recently Dimitri’s letters had grown shorter and less intimate. They communicated more general news of shared friends and events in Fhirdiad, and less of Dimitri’s opinions or thoughts.

Byleth felt the distance he was putting between them. It was painful. She did not know how she should respond to it, and so continuously put off replying. Dimitri’s most recent letter had gone unanswered for nearly a month.

Now it was nearly Founding Day and Byleth could no longer put off writing without appearing callous. But she still had no words.

Picking up Dimitri’s letter, Byleth read over it again, hoping that hidden somewhere between the lines would be something of Dimitri she could latch onto.

> 10th day of the Horsebow Moon
> 
> Byleth,
> 
> It is hard to believe that winter is approaching. I meant to write after Dedue’s birthday, but somehow it is already the Horsebow Moon. Since returning from Garreg Mach the days have blurred. I am faced with a bottomless pile of work. The Founding of the Alliance Celebration is fast approaching as well and I must travel to Derdriu to host a commemorative feast. Although the Alliance is technically no more, we must acknowledge the holiday in order to ensure the friendship between our people does not fail.
> 
> 12th day of the Horsebow Moon
> 
> I meant to write of Dedue’s birthday. Annette organised a party with some of our old friends and Dedue’s compatriots. I have only seen Dedue so surprised one other time–when Annette agreed to marry him. There is no doubt, however, that no one in the castle deserves a celebration more than him. He works harder than everyone. The only improvement on the event would have been your presence.
> 
> And, of course, Ingrid’s. I am certain she would have come. She and Dedue were friends by the end of the war.
> 
> Which reminds me, Ingrid’s brother Krist was in Fhirdiad recently. The Count Galatea is increasingly leaving the running of his affairs to him. Krist is a clever statesman and the Court benefits greatly from his work. He is one of the reasons I continue to be confused as to why people still hold that Crests are the defining factor of a person’s worth.
> 
> 29th day of the Horsebow Moon
> 
> The days escaped me. I must beg your forgiveness.
> 
> Being back in Derdriu without the threat of battle is pleasant. No one in Fódlan can organise a feast like the Alliance nobles. The celebrations spilled onto the streets. I somehow found myself dancing with a lady who sells cloaks in a shop on the waterfront. She was–well, she was certainly more complimentary than my meagre dancing skills deserve.
> 
> You might be interested to know that our delegation was housed in the residence of the former Duke Riegan. I was put in Claude’s old room. There are many things he left behind, books and notes, and a couple of souvenirs from our days at the academy. Wherever Claude is, I hope he is closer to achieving whatever he set out to accomplish. I would like to sit down with him once more and hear the whole truth. I hope he has heard the outcome of the war. I think he would approve of what we are doing. There are •
> 
> Forgive me, Dedue says that Holst requests my presence.
> 
> 5th day of the Wyvern Moon
> 
> Every morning I vow to finish this letter and send it. Every day my efforts are frustrated.
> 
> This morning I remembered it is the same date that Seteth insisted on holding that fishing tournament for Flayn, all those years ago. What it was she wished to eat escapes me now. I do remember that you caught the elusive fish.
> 
> I suppose staying in Claude’s quarters is making me more sentimental than usual. In any case, I hope Seteth and Flayn are both well.
> 
> 10th day of the Wyvern Moon
> 
> I am beginning to question the point of sending this. You will probably be on your way to Fhirdiad before it reaches the monastery. <strike>I am </strike>
> 
> 11th day of the Wyvern Moon
> 
> I now know that you will not be attending the Founding Day celebrations in Fhirdiad. It never occurred to me that you would be needed elsewhere–another symptom, I fear, of the qualities in leadership I still lack.
> 
> However, it is comforting to know that you will be holding the fort, as such, at Garreg Mach on Founding Day. I know from reports how much you achieve there. Through your efforts our long held dream of a peaceful Fódlan flourishes. There is no one else to whom I would entrust that task.
> 
> 14th day of the Wyvern Moon
> 
> I shall send this to you today. Forgive me for the rambling nature of this letter, Byleth. I fear I am becoming a worse correspondent the longer I am king. I hold hope that this will not deter you from responding. Reading your letters is one of the few bright moments in my day. You remain my dearest friend.
> 
> Dimitri

The last paragraph was written more messily than the others, in a style Byleth recognised from exams she had marked as the Blue Lions’ professor. When Dimitri drew close to the end of a test, his penmanship suffered due to a panicked determination to finish. But beyond that, she still knew nothing of what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Nothing at all.

“So many words,” Byleth muttered to herself.

She dropped the letter, took up her pen and dipped the nib in the inkwell. After a moment’s pause, she hastily composed a reply, not allowing herself to think about what she was writing. If she did, she would never write anything at all.

> Dimitri,
> 
> If I forgive you for your disjointed letter, you must forgive me for my brief one. I am kept busy here at Garreg Mach by Seteth and the cardinals. It reminds me of my short attempt at teaching. There is always some new disaster or hurt feeling that requires my attention. Thankfully the crises are usually able to be solved through calm discussion or at worst a little edible bribery.
> 
> Nonetheless, I wanted to write before Founding Day to say good luck. I know that the celebrations will be remembered as the beginning of a new era and you as the person who brought peace.
> 
> The goddess watch over you.
> 
> Your friend
> 
> Byleth

“Your Grace?”

Seteth knocked on the open door as he stepped into the room. Byleth put her pen down and threw pounce over the wet ink.

“What is it, Seteth?” she asked as she worked.

“It is time to go into the town. Alois is waiting to escort you.”

“One moment.”

Byleth shook the pounce into the dish beside her inkwell and folded the letter. She couldn’t allow herself to read it again or she would tear it up. After pouring wax over the join and stamping her seal, she held the letter out to Seteth.

“Would you have this delivered to Dimitri?” she asked.

“His Majesty? Of course.”

Byleth stood. “Thank you. Tell Alois I will be with him presently.”

**II: Garreg Mach Town  
Morning**

As Byleth greeted the owner of the bakery and teahouse in Garreg Mach Town, she heard familiar voices from within the shop.

“You cannot be serious!” the first, full and authoritative, cried. “Why would you allow that?”

Byleth could not decipher the reply, but the tones of the whisper were unmistakeable.

Byleth bowed her head at the shop owner and ducked through the doorway. There was a rattle as the customers seated inside jumped to their feet. Byleth gestured for them to sit back down, her eyes falling on the only table whose occupants had failed to stand.

They were two women dressed in clothing that clearly denoted a position in Fódlan’s wealthier classes. The blue-haired woman, seated facing the door, saw Byleth first. She gracefully but quickly rose to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her and averting her gentle eyes to the ground as she bowed. The white-haired woman sitting with her back to the entrance lifted her face to observe her companion.

“What are you doing, Marianne?” Lysithea demanded.

“Lysithea, it’s Her Grace,” Marianne said softly.

Lysithea turned in her seat, grabbing the chair’s back so she could crane her neck further. The sheer purple veil covering her hair fluttered with the abrupt movement.

“Professor!” Lysithea said warmly. “It’s so nice to see you.”

Byleth approached their table. The other customers, seeing they were not to be subjected to the greetings of the archbishop, returned to their refreshments.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” Byleth said to her former students. She had taught the Golden Deer on occasion, usually in lessons about tactics and swordplay. “May I join you? Alois, is there time?”

Byleth glanced at her shadow, who had entered the shop close after her. Alois grinned widely.

“Of course, Your Grace!” the knight gushed. “How could there not be time to meet with old friends?”

With his approval, Byleth sat down on the chair Marianne was indicating. Alois went to the counter, revealing his true motives for agreeing to the visit as he studied the baker’s pies.

“When did you arrive?” Byleth asked.

“Last night,” Lysithea answered. “We managed to find lodgings in town, but it was ever so difficult. This place is crawling with all sorts. It’s a miracle we found a bed at all.”

“You must stay at the monastery,” Byleth said. “The Officers Academy is still empty. There are plenty of rooms you can use.”

“Oh, we could not impose,” Marianne said.

“Marianne, don’t be ridiculous,” Lysithea cut in. “Why shouldn’t we accept the professor’s offer?”

Lysithea’s quick insistence on her own comfort amused Byleth and she had to hide a smile. In the days after Claude gave the Alliance into Dimitri’s care and departed Fódlan, some of its nobles and soldiers had made their way to Garreg Mach to join the Kingdom’s army. Lysithea had been among the first to arrive. She had promptly reorganised the sleeping arrangements of the entire army to ensure she was closest to the library.

“To be honest, I am surprised you are here,” Byleth said. “I thought all the nobles were going to Fhirdiad.”

Lysithea’s eyes widened. “Oh, then you haven’t heard?” she said. “I finished winding up the affairs of House Ordelia three weeks ago. As such, I am no longer a noble and am free to do whatever I please.”

The news was unexpected, and to Byleth alarming. She gawked at Lysithea, unable to speak. If Lysithea had closed House Ordelia, it must mean she had given up hope. Byleth could not allow hope to be lost, not when she and others were still searching for a way to reverse the damage that had been done.

But Lysithea smiled in response to her horror.

“Oh no, Professor,” she said. “Not that. My parents and I agreed it was for the best. It gives me more time to search for a way to change my fate.”

Lysithea threw her hair behind her shoulders.

“Marianne, why don’t you tell the Professor why you are here?” she said, before digging her fork into the large piece of cake in front of her.

Marianne stuttered, visibly leaning back in her chair as though it would save her from speaking. Her personality was little changed from her days as a student despite the aptitude she had demonstrated in the hospitals towards the end of the war.

“My father wanted me to go with him to Fhirdiad,” Marianne said at length. “But I know I would only be in the way. It is better for me to spend the holiday in prayer.”

Lysithea snorted.

“It’s all a show, Professor,” she said. “Really, Marianne was too shy to see Dimitri.”

Byleth looked at Marianne and saw her cheeks were flushed red.

“Say, Professor,” Lysithea continued before Byleth could gather her thoughts, “don’t you think it’s odd? I thought Dimitri would be married by now.”

“What makes you say that?”

Byleth managed the question with more calm than she felt at the sudden change in topic.

“It’s simple,” Lysithea said. “If Dimitri’s aim is to unite the continent, wouldn’t the easiest way to do it be by marrying a noble from one of the former nations? With all this talk of how the Kingdom nobles are looking down on everyone else, marriage to someone from Adrestia or the Alliance would make everyone realise he is serious.”

Marianne, in an odd show of confidence, put her hand on Lysithea’s. “Hush,” she said, glancing at Byleth.

Byleth twisted her hands together under the table as she pulled together the fraying threads of her emotions.

“I suppose you are right,” she said to Lysithea.

“Of course I am.” Lysithea tapped her fork against her plate. “But I suppose what Dimitri is doing should deliver the same message. After all, marriages usually create more problems than they solve. Just ask Claude.”

**III: Fhirdiad  
Late Morning**

The marketplace was awash with blue. Lions were a proud feature of most stalls and products. There was a warm and amiable feeling in the air as people from all over Fódlan wandered up and down the streets, snacking on sweet buns and meat skewers.

Annette loved market days. The mess of trinkets and goods and sweets was a delight to her, especially now that the war was only a memory. She could indulge without the guilt that came from knowing her money could be better spent on bandages or medicine.

And now that Fhirdiad was the capital of the entire continent, merchants came from far and wide to sell their goods. If they could sell their products to the heights of Fhirdiad society, their success elsewhere was assured. The choice of goods available had never been better.

Annette’s eyes were drawn to a stall boasting a wealth of tiny woollen socks in dozens of different colours. Although her child was still several months away, the sight of miniature clothing caused a rush of happiness and love. Annette picked up a pair of red ones.

“Expecting a happy event?” the middle-aged woman behind the stall asked, smiling kindly.

Annette blushed.

“Yes,” she answered. “It’s my first.”

“Well, best get these ones,” the stall keeper said. She held up a blue pair. “Only right for a child born in the first year of the Saviour King’s reign.”

“Oh, I…”

“She won’t be wanting those ones.”

A chill ran up Annette’s spine. She put the socks down and turned to leave, but found her path blocked. Her heart thumping, she lifted her head to look at the man standing in her way.

Loog grinned down at her. He was a tall, thin whippet of a palace guard. He wore street clothing in the maverick style preferred by off-duty soldiers, with a loose leather belt hanging around his hips and a short leather jacket. Annette knew that since he clearly had the day off, things would be worse for her. He wouldn’t feel hampered by the device on his uniform.

“Leave me alone,” Annette said softly, hoping to end it quickly.

Loog laughed and leaned past Annette to pick up the socks she had abandoned. The stall keeper eyed him in quiet fury.

“Were these the ones?” Loog asked, holding them up as though they were infected. “S’pose it’s only appropriate. You wouldn’t want the blue ones, considering.”

Annette stepped around him.

“I’ll be on my way,” she said firmly.

Loog’s hand shot out and tightened around Annette’s arm.

“Why in such a hurry?” he asked.

“Hey,” the stall keeper said, “you leave her alone.”

Annette pulled her arm from Loog’s grip while he was momentarily distracted.

“You do know who you’re defending?” Loog asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who she betrayed?”

Annette glared at Loog as she once again failed to step past him.

“I betrayed no one,” she said.

Loog held out an arm to stop her ducking around him.

“You share a bed with one of _them_,” he said. “How is that not betraying our king?”

The stall keeper’s expression changed. Annette hugged herself, knowing what came next.

“What do you mean?” the stall keeper asked.

“She married one of those pigs from Duscur,” Loog said. He waved the red socks in Annette’s face. “And now she’s carrying a little cross-breed.”

Annette looked at the stall keeper, hoping she would find an ally. Instead, she scowled at Annette and reached across the stall to snatch the socks from Loog.

“Both of you, move along,” she said. “I want no trouble here.”

Annette bit her lip as tears of anger prickled at the corners of her eyes. She tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders and turned towards home.

Loog jumped in front of her.

“Where are you going?” he said. “What? You thought people wouldn’t take offence at this?”

“My family is none of your business,” Annette replied. “Who do you think you are? You bring shame to your namesake.”

“No,” Loog said, grabbing her arm again. Annette winced as his fingers pressed into her flesh. “But you bring shame to your family, to your people, to everyone around you. It’s bad enough that the king keeps that mutt at heel. But at least he keeps him in the right place. You, on the other hand, let him breed you.”

Annette shrieked in fury. She summoned a fire spell without thinking. Loog yelped at the sudden heat and released her.

“Don’t you dare touch me again!” Annette cried.

A crowd had begun to gather around them. Annette could see her neighbours, the baker, and soldiers in uniform. Not a single person came to her aid. Understanding from that what they truly thought, Annette’s anger intensified. She lifted her hands.

“My husband is a hero,” she said, to the crowd as much as to Loog. “He is not an animal. I am not an animal. We are people, just like you! How dare you speak of us in that way? Dedue is a better man than you can ever hope to be.”

Now Annette had brought magic into the argument, Loog kept his distance. Her reputation as one of the most accomplished mages in Fhirdiad was useful in these situations. But Loog was not frightened away by it completely.

Loog spat on the ground at Annette’s feet, smirking as he looked back up at her.

“You keep believing that, bitch,” he said. “If it helps you birth that beast.”

Annette saw red and called on a Cutting Gale.

“What is going on here?”

Annette’s heart jumped into her throat as a tall figure stepped neatly into her line of vision. The teal colour of the man’s clothing was unmistakeable, as was his messy black hair and sharp features. Felix’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he turned to face Loog.

Loog backed down immediately, dropping into a bow. The crowd quickly dispersed. Even if they didn’t know the Duke Fraldarius by sight, there was no question that it would be foolish to anger the newcomer. His appearance spoke of wealth and his posture of skill.

Annette spun on her heel and fled.

“Annette! Annette, slow down! This can’t be good for the baby!”

Felix was right, of course, Annette thought. She could trip.

Then Annette realised what he had said. Her heart skipped and she slowed her steps.

Felix caught up a moment later. He stopped in her path, forcing her to stop as well.

“Are you all right?” Felix asked. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Annette answered, staring at the ground. She was so embarrassed she couldn’t bear to meet Felix’s eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

Annette looked up, clenching her fists. Felix looked determined and angry. Ready to take action. This was the problem with him. He insisted on pushing into places he wasn’t wanted and in the process infuriated everyone else.

“How much did you hear?” Annette asked.

“Honestly, all of it.”

Felix crossed his arms and blew his hair from his eyes.

“A baby, then?” he said.

“Yes,” Annette replied.

“Great. Now will you let me go back and put that miserable sod in his place?”

“No!”

Felix appeared stunned by the violence of Annette’s opposition. He was silent a moment, then horrid understanding dawned across his face.

“Annette,” he said softly, his expression deadly, “how many times has this happened?”

Panic rose in her. Annette grabbed Felix’s wrist and dragged him away from the main streets. When they were safely away from the bustle of the market and he was trapped in a corner, she let him go. Felix looked down at her, yielding for now. But the fire in his eyes remained.

“Please don’t tell Dedue,” Annette said.

Felix threw a hand in the direction they had come.

“You mean Dedue doesn’t know this is happening?”

“Felix, you cannot tell him,” Annette pleaded. “He can’t know about it.”

“You’re his wife! He should be here with you, stopping this. It isn’t my job, damn it! I bet that scum would flee with his tail between his legs if the giant was beside you.”

“Of course he would. They only bother me when I’m alone. And that’s why Dedue never needs to know.”

Felix closed his eyes briefly, then sighed in exasperation.

“Goddess, why the hell should you have to put up with shit like that?”

“I knew what I was doing when I married Dedue,” Annette said. “Dimitri can’t change Faerghus overnight. But I still took my vows. I was prepared for this.”

“You didn’t look prepared back there.”

“I was handling it, wasn’t I? I can defend myself.”

“You’re pregnant. You have to be careful. You think you can take on threats like that when you’ve a child to protect?”

“All the more reason for me to stand up to bullies! How could I ever face my child if I let people like him get away with saying such horrible things?”

“Let me teach him a lesson and you’ll never have to hear it again.”

Annette folded her arms across her chest as her patience wore out.

“Yes, because what Dimitri needs right now is the Duke Fraldarius publicly whipping a castle guard,” she said. “Especially when you have clearly already been involved in a fight this week.”

Felix flinched, revealing that Annette had hit a nerve. But she didn’t know which one. All she knew was that Felix had done a poor job of covering the dark bruising around his eye, the evidence that he had once again let his anger get the better of his duty towards Dimitri. And Annette’s tolerance for Felix’s anger had disappeared a long time ago.

“This is none of your business, Felix,” Annette repeated. “Don’t tell Dedue. If he or anyone else, including Dimitri, find out, I’ll know who to blame.”

Annette spun on her heel and marched towards her home. She thanked the goddess she didn’t hear Felix’s footsteps chasing after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this chapter. As always, life happens. I also had to remap some of the coming events, which took a little more time than expected!
> 
> Can I just say, I am a massive Lysithea fan. Her attitude and straight talking are one of the highlights of the game for me.
> 
> I was glad to finally bring some of the Golden Deer into the story by more than just name. I don't think it is too far a stretch to think that some of the Golden Deer would have returned and joined Dimitri's army after Claude's departure. I sometimes wish that the game had more character movement like that.
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated! Thank you for reading and all the lovely comments and kudos so far. You're all wonderful!


	8. Meeting with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain arrives in Fhirdiad with his father. As Dimitri receives him in front of nobles from every corner of Fódlan, it is quickly revealed that they are not the good friends they were before. Felix worries Sylvain's lack of respect will cause problems for Dimitri.

**I: Fhirdiad | Founding Day eve  
Noon**

The scrape of curtain rings across the rod pulled Sylvain from sleep. Sunlight warmed his face. He moaned, twisting in the chair and lifting a hand to shade his closed eyes.

“Sylvain! I can’t believe you are asleep.”

Sylvain groaned again.

“Get up! Come on, please. It’s lunch time.”

The desperation in Ingrid’s voice didn’t persuade Sylvain to move. He wanted sleep, not food.

“Sylvain.”

Ingrid’s legs brushed his. The chair shifted as she rested her hands on the arms. He sensed her leaning over him, and then feather light kisses were pressed against his eyelids, his nose, his mouth. Sylvain reached up blindly and locked his arms around Ingrid’s waist, stopping her from escaping.

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain opened his eyes. He was immediately blinded by the light pouring through the window behind Ingrid. It created a golden halo around her head, but prevented him from seeing her face.

“They are serving peasant roast,” Ingrid said, her lips still temptingly close to his. “Please. I really want to have some.”

Sylvain blinked, trying to clear his blindness.

“Sylvain.”

He sat up, pulling Ingrid towards him as he lifted one hand from her waist to the back of her head. Urging her lips towards his.

“Son.”

Sylvain groaned as an ache materialised in his shoulders and back. His head was throbbing. He rubbed the back of his neck as he sat up straight, stretching his muscles. Only then did he realise the carriage had stopped moving.

“Where are we?” he asked, opening his eyes and blinking as he adjusted to the light.

“Fhirdiad,” his father said. “You slept most of the way.”

His father leaned forward, both hands resting on top of his cane. Although he had no need of it, he took the cane everywhere. An affectation carried over from his fashionable youth, and one that he used to great effect as he eyed Sylvain critically. It was like being judged by an old sage.

“How badly foxed are you?” his father asked.

Sylvain laughed, ignoring the stabbing it caused in his head.

“Please,” he said. “I barely drank a thing.”

His father frowned, and Sylvain thought the sadness in that expression would haunt him for the rest of his days. He hadn’t looked like that even when Miklan died.

“Son, if that was barely a thing…”

The carriage door swung open. A footman leaned forward and unfolded the carriage stairs. He stepped back and bowed.

“My Lord Margrave.”

Sylvain’s father did not acknowledge the footman or move to exit the carriage. His jaw was clenched as he continued to study Sylvain.

For Sylvain’s part, he had never been so glad of a servant’s interpretation. He hurriedly stood and descended the steps into the yard of the royal castle.

“My Lord Gautier,” the footman uttered, looking surprised.

“In the flesh,” Sylvain responded.

The Margrave Gautier emerged from the carriage. He examined the footman critically. The noble had returned. The father buried somewhere beneath.

“My man,” he said, “is the king’s reception being held as scheduled?”

The footman nodded, repeatedly dipping forward to bow like a bird forging for food.

“It will be held after lunch hour, my lord,” he answered. “You will have enough time to refresh yourselves. I will take you directly to your quarters.”

“I hope my son’s presence is not a burden on your arrangements,” the Margrave said smoothly as they began to walk towards the castle. “I understand he was not expected.”

Anger boiled in Sylvain’s chest, all affection towards his father immediately forgotten. So he had not been required at all. The old man had played a trick on him.

“Never, my lord. Please follow me.”

An hour later Sylvain was trussed up in ceremonial attire, with a tailored double-breasted jacket and his service medals. Servants ushered him towards the audience hall. He pointedly did not speak to his father throughout the journey. Did not even look in his direction. Sylvain was embarrassed at having fallen so easily into the trap. He was mortified at the discussion about Ingrid. He felt foolish for thinking that his father was anything but a scheming bastard. And guilty for letting such abuse cross his mind, because he knew his father had done all this out of misguided concern.

Above it all, Sylvain’s head was still throbbing. He had not been able to consume any wellness herbs or enlist the aid of a healer. His father had watched him like a hawk the whole time they prepared for the dumb ceremony. After their exchange, he couldn’t very well admit to being affected by alcohol.

It was only when they reached the waiting room for the audience hall that it hit Sylvain like a javelin wielded by one of Edelgard’s golems.

Dimitri was in the next room.

And Felix must be…

“Sylvain?”

Sylvain took a calming breath before turning to face Felix. There was a look of dumb surprise on his face. Really, it was a miracle Felix had any success as a duke, considering he was so damned honest all the time.

“Fraldarius,” Sylvain responded coolly.

“Duke,” the Margrave said, striding past Sylvain to take Felix’s hand.

“Margrave Gautier,” Felix said, returning the gesture of greeting but keeping his eyes on Sylvain. “I thought you were coming alone.”

“I convinced Sylvain to join me as we were leaving,” the Margrave said, stepping back. “How have the preparations for the celebrations treated you?”

“Tedious nonsense,” Felix replied.

The Margrave laughed.

“The thought of the master of the Sword of Zoltan planning a party…I must admit it is amusing.”

“My son is as capable of arranging as celebration as he is of defeating a squadron of myrmidons single-handedly,” came a musical voice. “Or are you questioning my ability to raise a son of Fraldarius correctly?”

Sylvain turned his head to see Felix’s mother approaching them. As always, she exceeded expectations. Her grey satin gown was designed to draw the attention of every red-blooded person in the room. Her raven locks were piled on her head, displaying her elegant neck and beautiful profile to those who dared to look. As many did, now that Rodrigue was no longer around.

Sylvain stepped forward to take the dowager duchess’s hand. He lifted it to his lips and gently kissed the back of it, maintaining eye contact with Evangeline as he did so.

“My lady,” he murmured.

“Sylvain, we have spoken about flirting,” Evangeline said, raising an eyebrow.

“How can I temper my reactions when faced with a timeless beauty such as yourself?” Sylvain replied.

Evangeline did not look amused at all. She removed her hand from Sylvain’s grip.

“Speak with Felix,” she ordered, taking the Margrave’s arm and leading him away.

Felix had turned a charming shade of red. Sylvain held in his satisfaction, not wanting Felix to catch on. Of course he was not the least bit interested in Evangeline. She was his friend’s mother. But it was a prank and a cruel one, and no less than Felix deserved.

“Did you respond to the boar’s invitation directly?” Felix asked shortly.

Sylvain shrugged.

“Do you really think I would come here of my own volition? Please.”

Felix clenched the hilt of his ceremonial sword. Sylvain almost wished he would draw it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Felix said. “Especially not today. Dimitri…”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about him,” Sylvain snapped. “I don’t owe him anything.”

Felix sighed angrily.

“You have to behave,” he said. “The entire nobility of Fódlan is here. The Alliance and the Adrestian lords and ladies have already entered. Everything you do will be noted and remembered by every single one of them.”

“That is not my problem,” Sylvain said, turning away from Felix. “If he wanted the respect of his people, he should have been a better leader.”

**II: Audience Hall, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Early Afternoon**

“Last one from Adrestia?” Dimitri asked Dedue in an undertone, as Count Bergliez bowed himself away and Count Varley came forward.

Dedue nodded slightly. Dimitri held in his relief. There was more tension in greeting a single noble from Adrestia than addressing all of Faerghus’s aristocratic houses at once, cousins and country lords included.

As Varley stopped in front of the throne, Dimitri held out his hand.

“Your Majesty,” Varley said, bowing low over the signet ring.

“It is an honour to receive you in Fhirdiad for the first time, Count Varley,” Dimitri said.

“The honour is entirely mine,” Varley replied. “To be received by the sovereign of our great nation is a gift granted to few.”

“It is hardly a gift.”

Varley smiled insincerely and backed away.

Dimitri glanced over the nobles from the former Empire as Varley joined their ranks. The line-up was entirely different from the one Dimitri had memorised as a child. Edelgard’s defeat had consigned Hresvelg and Arundel to history. Houses Vestra and Aegir had died with Hubert and Ferdinand. Count Hevring had maintained his power and stood at the head of Adrestian group, but Linhardt’s death at Fort Merceus had left him childless, and his house in danger of meeting the same end as House Gloucester.

Of the others standing with Hevring, the only people Dimitri had known of before the war were Caspar’s brother Ervin, who had resurrected House Bergliez, and Varley, who had returned from house arrest unscathed and considerably wealthier. The rest were formerly minor nobles who won the mad power scrambles during the Empire’s collapse and quickly swore allegiance to Dimitri after Edelgard’s death.

Dimitri did not trust a single one of them. They were investors who made money off war, opportunists who thrived on the humiliation of others, and turncoats whose fidelity was bought with coin.

The horn sounded to announce the final guests: the noble houses of Faerghus.

“The Duke Fraldarius and the Dowager Duchess Fraldarius,” the herald called.

Felix entered with a deep scowl. Dimitri surmised the reason behind it as Evangeline floated into the hall. As always, Evangeline looked stunning, but Felix hated the way people fawned over her because of it. Demonstrating the point, from the corner of his eye Dimitri could see Bergliez’s mouth gaping as he stared at her.

“Your Majesty,” Felix growled as he bowed over Dimitri’s signet ring.

“Always a pleasure to have you here, Felix,” Dimitri said, in a poor attempt to cheer him up.

Felix glared at him.

Dimitri stepped off the dais and walked over to Evangeline. She dropped into a deep curtesy as he approached. Dimitri held out his hand to help her rise.

“My lady,” Dimitri said, bowing over Evangeline’s hand.

“Your Majesty,” Evangeline said. She leaned towards Dimitri and kissed him on the cheek, a privilege reserved for the woman who had taken the place of his stepmother after the Tragedy of Duscur.

“Sylvain is here,” Evangeline breathed as she drew back.

Dimitri smiled at Evangeline, letting the expression hide the anxiety that stabbed through his chest. As Felix backed away, Dimitri caught his eye. Felix gave a slight nod and Dimitri realised that he had been mistaken in his assumption of the reason behind Felix’s scowl.

Via correspondence, the Margrave had told Dimitri that he would bring Sylvain to the celebrations despite the fact that Sylvain’s personal invitation had gone unanswered. But Dimitri knew Sylvain. Sylvain was stubborn in a way few people recognised. Only a truly tenacious person would go back to the same girl ten times and convince her that he deserved a date. He was also ruthless when the desire took him. Miklan’s fate had proven that.

Currently, Dimitri was the subject of Sylvain’s pitiless blame, and nothing could convince him to release that grudge. As such, Dimitri had not expected the Margrave to get his way.

“The Margrave Gautier and Lord Gautier,” the herald said.

Dimitri held up a hand, signalling for the proceedings to pause while he returned to the dais. He used that moment to take a deep breath. He had to make sure he did not falter. The entire Adrestian nobility was present.

Immediately after Dimitri gestured to continue, the Margrave entered, his cane tapping rhythmically on the stone floor. Dimitri held out his hand. The Margrave grasped it warmly, holding his cane out to the side as he bowed.

“Your Majesty,” the Margrave said. “Congratulations on such a fine gathering. The splendour of these days is destined to be remembered long after we are gone.”

“Margrave, you are most welcome here,” Dimitri said.

The Margrave stepped aside with a flourish, leaving an empty space between Dimitri and Sylvain. For the first time since his official visit to the Sreng border in the Garland Moon, Dimitri looked into the eyes of his friend.

He was met with ice and stone.

Sylvain did not budge from where he stood in the centre of the room. His arms were stiff at his sides, his posture rigid and unyielding. He returned Dimitri’s gaze, but his eyes lacked the mischievous light that had cheered Dimitri during his darkest days. Now, after everything they had been through together, those eyes were heartless.

Dimitri broke first. His glanced towards Felix for help. Felix was staring at the ground, his fists clenched.

Sudden footsteps in the otherwise quiet hall drew Dimitri’s attention back to Sylvain. He was walking towards Dimitri, but without any of the deference commanded by etiquette. It was inevitable, Dimitri thought, that everyone in the room would notice the discomfort between them. The hall was crowded with people who thrived on intrigue and schemes.

As Sylvain reached him, Dimitri held out his hand. He cursed himself for how mechanical the movement was. Sylvain raised his own hand beneath Dimitri’s, but was careful not to make contact. He bowed silently, then turned his back. The action stabbed through Dimitri’s heart.

“Sylvain,” he said, unable to bear the loss of another friend, as Edelgard’s, Ingrid’s, Byleth’s faces swam in his mind.

Sylvain paused as he walked away. He did not speak, but he did look back over his shoulder. His expression was disgust, and Dimitri faltered. But he had to say something.

“Welcome,” he said, the only thing that came to mind, before he quickly indicated for the herald to announce the next guest. Dimitri saw Felix flinch as the Adrestian nobles began to shift and murmur.

**III: The King’s Private Study, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Afternoon**

Dedue rushed to Dimitri’s side, bearing a glass of water. Dimitri smiled at his friend.

“Anything stronger?” he asked.

“Don’t you start too.”

The double doors flew open as Felix burst into the room. His jacket was undone, the composure he had displayed during the reception vanished along with his medals and ceremonial sword.

“What do you mean?” Dimitri asked as he accepted the water.

“He was foxed,” Felix said. “Couldn’t you tell? He kept flinching and couldn’t walk straight.”

Dimitri smiled indifferently. He had noticed. His years living in the slums, added to growing up at the royal court, had taught him to recognise the numerous and varied symptoms of excessive alcohol consumption. But admitting that would only anger Felix more.

“He caused a scene,” Felix continued. “The Adrestian nobles will not soon forget it.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dimitri said.

Felix gawked.

“How was it not ‘that bad’? He didn’t greet you properly, he didn’t bow properly. He turned his back on you! You must know that revolutions have been built on less.”

Dimitri carefully put down the glass of water with a glance at Dedue, who was being oddly quiet. Over the past year Dimitri had encouraged him to contribute to discussions with close allies like Felix and the Margrave. But during the past few days, whenever Felix was in the room, the man was completely deadpan.

“What is your view of the situation, Dedue?” Dimitri asked.

Dedue put his hands behind his back and assumed a soldier’s stance. Old habits died hard.

“Sylvain was unforgivably rude to you, Your Majesty,” he said.

Dimitri laughed.

“Of course,” he said, turning his eye to the floor and tapping the arm of the chair. “Why would I expect any other reaction from you?”

“Goddess. Don’t tell me,” Felix groaned.

Knowing that meant Felix had finally understood his thoughts, Dimitri pushed himself out of the chair and crossed to the window. From this office he could see the blue streamers and flags that decorated the streets of Fhirdiad. A colour that Dimitri associated closely with his own identity, and a reminder of what he was.

“You know he has good reasons behind his hatred,” Dimitri said softly. “I find it hard to fault Sylvain for his actions.”

“Because of your own history?” Felix said. “Dare I admit it; you couldn’t help all that. It’s in your nature.”

“I had every chance to do things the right way. I decided to take the path of destruction. There was always a choice. Therefore, I cannot judge someone for…”

“You will let Sylvain’s childish behaviour be the ruin of everything because you feel guilty for Ingrid’s death,” Felix interrupted.

Dimitri leaned a hand against the window frame, his dream from the night before replaying in his mind.

“You were fighting Edelgard,” Felix said. “You were miles away from Ingrid. It was us, Dimitri. Me and Sylvain. We were within reach of her and we failed to get there in time. It was my fault, not yours.”

Felix’s words fell on Dimitri’s ears like the thundering of a charging cavalry. He dropped his hand by his side and turned back to the room. Dedue was staring at Felix in a similar state of shock.

“You told me what happened,” Dimitri said. “I don’t see how you could have saved her.”

“I was tired,” Felix said, yanking his jacket off. “If I had tried harder, I could have defeated those soldiers in a heartbeat. But I was tired and because of that, we got to her too late. All I could do was close her eyes.”

Felix scrunched the jacket into a ball and threw it across the room.

“Bloody useless,” he swore.

There was a knock on the door. Dimitri hesitated. He had never heard Felix speak of Ingrid’s death in this way. He had never realised that Felix felt responsible for Ingrid’s death. Then, he suddenly recalled when Felix had admitted that he questioned himself everyday: why had Glenn died? Why was Rodrigue gone, and why was he the only one left?

Knowing that both Felix’s father and brother, and Ingrid, had ultimately died for his own sake, Dimitri felt a responsibility to do something to comfort his friend. But he had no idea what.

The knock sounded again. Dimitri cursed and nodded at Dedue, who hurried over to the door and opened it.

“Your Majesty.”

It was one of the castle runners. Dimitri frowned, trying to think who would be sending him a note now. He had only left the reception recently and would shortly begin preparing for the banquet.

Dedue reached out and picked up the letter from the messenger’s tray. He glanced at the address and his eyes widened.

“When did this come?” Dedue asked, looking up at the runner.

“Only an hour previous, sir, by express wyvern messenger.”

“Thank you,” Dedue said, abruptly closing the door.

Dimitri and Felix both watched in silence as Dedue crossed the room. The tension in the air began to feel comical, until Dedue held the letter out to Dimitri and spoke.

“Your Majesty. A letter from Garreg Mach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter. They had been growing steadily longer, but...
> 
> Hopefully Sylvain is not too out of character here. However we are given hints in the game about how vindictive and cruel Sylvain can be, especially in his support conversations with Byleth. Since this is Sylvain living his worst nightmare, I think that those aspects of his personality would become much more apparent.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Consigned to the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix faces painful events from his past and has an honest talk with his mother. Dimitri reads a letter from Byleth and makes a decision.

**I: House Fraldarius | Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1176  
Morning**

Felix listened intently as his father moved the teacup representing the forward unit of their army in front of the sugar caster, or reserve force, on the improvised battlefield of the breakfast table.

"Feigning a retreat is not a simple task," Rodrigue explained. "Especially if there are volunteers in your reserve force. Battles have been lost when volunteers mistook a tactical retreat for a real one."

"Shouldn’t the rear captains make sure their soldiers understand the orders?" Felix asked.

Rodrigue nodded. "Ideally. However, the battlefield is a confusing place. And fear does strange things to people."

Evangeline, sitting opposite Felix, suddenly reached out and moved the salt shaker, an enemy unit, to the left. Felix glared at his mother. Rodrigue turned his head and smiled at her. Evangeline giggled as she picked up her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair.

In no mood to watch his parents flirt, Felix quickly moved the salt shaker back into position and pointed to the pepper grinder.

“Then if…”

A knock echoed through the room. Evangeline lowered her coffee cup from her lips. Rodrigue nodded at the butler, who hurried to open the door.

A footman stumbled into the room and bowed. Felix fell against the back of his chair with a sigh. The servant was carrying a letter. His father would start work and never finish his explanation of feigned retreats.

But as the footman scurried towards Felix’s father, Felix’s interest was caught by something odd. The footman’s hand was shaking. The letter quivered audibly.

Rodrigue stood, frowning.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My lord, I…” The footman bowed again and shoved the letter into Rodrigue’s outstretched hand. “There has been an incident.”

Felix’s eyes were momentarily drawn to his mother as her coffee cup clicked against the saucer. Then they returned to Rodrigue, who was ripping open the letter. Rodrigue’s eyes darted across the page. As he read, his face grew pale. He lifted a hand to his temple.

“Rodrigue?” Evangeline asked, standing.

Felix’s mother stepped up behind her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder. She began to read the letter, peering at it over her husband’s arm, but Rodrigue sharply folded it and threw it onto the table.

“Get out,” he said to the footman and the butler, with uncharacteristic harshness.

Rodrigue’s hands were shaking now. He reached for Evangeline and pulled her into an embrace, resting his forehead on her shoulder. Evangeline began to rub her husband’s back with one hand.

Felix remained seated, frozen, as he watched. He sensed that this was an important moment, one that would change his life. But he could not imagine what the so-called incident was or how it might relate to him.

“My dear,” Rodrigue said. His voice sounded different, thicker than usual. “There…there has been an attack.”

Felix’s heart began to race. If there had been an attack, there might be a real battle. He might be allowed to fight.

But Evangeline frowned.

“What?” she murmured.

Rodrigue drew back, taking Evangeline’s hands between his.

“In Duscur. Goddess, I begged him not to go.”

Evangeline tugged her hands from Rodrigue’s, her expression shocked. But Felix did not understand. He stood and reached for the letter, eager for information. But Rodrigue slammed a hand down over it before Felix could snatch it away. The table trembled with the force of the strike.

“Felix, no,” Rodrigue said.

Felix had never heard his father use that tone before. It was the first time Felix had been forbidden from doing something. He had been warned against certain behaviours or actions, and reprimanded when he ignored those warnings, but he had never been forbidden.

“Rodrigue,” Evangeline said slowly, “where is Glenn?”

“Lambert…is dead,” Rodrigue said, closing his eyes briefly.

He choked on the last word and Felix abruptly understood the change in his father’s voice. Rodrigue was trying not to cry. That stunned Felix as much as the pronouncement that Dimitri’s imposing and invincible father was dead.

“And Glenn?” Evangeline pressed.

“Dimitri?” Felix asked urgently.

Felix had wanted to accompany his friend to Duscur, to see all the strange things he had heard about that part of the world. In the end, his schooling had prevented him from taking the trip. The thought that his friend could be in trouble, without Felix there to defend him, was distressing.

“Dimitri is alive,” Rodrigue said, looking at Felix. “But it seems he barely survived. He was wounded. And has severe burns. We should go to him. The healers are…”

“Rodrigue, where is my son?”

Rodrigue fell silent at Evangeline’s demand. He picked up the letter and scrunched it up.

“Rodrigue,” Evangeline begged.

“Glenn fought bravely,” Rodrigue said.

Something in his father’s voice made Felix clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

“I do not care how he fought, Rodrigue,” Evangeline snapped. “When is he coming home? Do I need to send for healers?”

Rodrigue shook his head, but said nothing.

“Rodrigue!”

Felix flinched at his mother’s shout. His father dropped the balled letter. Fear ignited as the impossible registered on the edge of Felix’s mind. He grasped the back of the chair, sensing he would shortly need its support.

“Evangeline,” his father said, “he is gone.”

Evangeline grabbed her husband’s arms, digging her fingers into them.

“He is not,” she ground out.

Rodrigue took a wavering breath and closed his eyes again.

“He is dead.”

Evangeline collapsed. Rodrigue caught her and carefully guided her to the ground. At the same time, Felix’s heart froze. It spread cold throughout his entire body. His limbs tingled, feeling strangely detached from the rest of him.

A rush of pain broke through the sensation all at once. The world turned dark. Felix didn’t understand. He had asked about Dimitri because Glenn was the strongest person he knew. Glenn didn’t die. Nothing could hurt him. He was a knight, for goddess’s sake.

Felix’s mother screamed. Rodrigue tried to gather her in his arms, but she pushed him away and kept screaming. The sound pierced Felix’s ears, amplifying the pain.

“Bring him back!” Evangeline cried.

Felix’s knuckles turned white as his grip on the chair tightened. His teeth clenched while he watched Rodrigue finally succeed in gathering Evangeline in his arms. She fell heavily against him, gasping for breath.

“He did his duty,” Rodrigue said through tears, stroking his wife’s hair. But his voice was hollow. “We can be proud of him. He died with honour.”

Evangeline slammed her fists against Rodrigue’s chest.

“Give me back my son!” she wailed.

Felix turned and knocked his chair aside. He ran.

“Felix!”

He slammed the door on his father’s shout. The footman jumped out of the way, but Felix was forced to shove the butler aside. He sprinted through the hallways of the Fraldarius mansion. Its loaming ceiling and gloomy hallways suddenly felt threatening. Like it was no longer his home. Because if Glenn wasn’t coming back, how could it ever be home again?

**II: Guest Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad) | Red Wolf Moon, Year 1187. Founding Day eve  
Evening**

Felix hesitated before knocking on the door of his mother’s suite. He was uncertain of his welcome, but after witnessing Sylvain’s behaviour that day he had begrudgingly admitted something: there was some truth to the things Dedue had said in the training yard.

When his mother’s maid opened the door, she looked a little angry to see him. Knowing how devoted she was to his mother, it did not surprise Felix. He had barely spoken to Evangeline since her arrival. The maid had probably heard the worst of her complaints about him.

“Who is it, dear?” came his mother’s voice.

“The Duke, ma’am,” the maid replied.

Felix did not say anything while they stood in the long silence that followed. He clasped his hands together behind his back, avoiding the maid’s judgemental stare.

“Let him in,” Evangeline called eventually.

The maid stepped backwards and held the door open for Felix. He looked around as he entered, but did not see his mother in the parlour. Without waiting for the maid’s instruction, he went towards the bedroom. He found his mother sitting at the dressing table within.

“What is it, Felix?” Evangeline asked, eying him in the mirror.

As the maid joined them, the apology once again died on Felix’s tongue. He could not summon the courage to say it in front of her. So Felix resorted to his second plan.

“I need help,” he said, gesturing to his bruised eye. “I tried to cover it up, but…”

Evangeline tutted and stood up.

“Sit here,” she said. Glancing at the maid, she added, “We’ll be fine.”

The maid curtsied and disappeared. A moment later Felix heard the main door of the suite close. Relieved that the girl was gone, Felix sat down.

Evangeline searched through the array of cosmetics littering the dressing table with one hand. The silver of her wedding band flashed in the glow of the oil lamps. Felix glanced over her outfit, noting the feathers in her hair and the pearl and turquoise necklace at her throat. Definitely not the clothing of a widow.

“You were brave to come here,” Evangeline said as she selected one of the mysterious ceramic containers. “You must have known I would demand to know what is going on.”

Felix nodded. “I did,” he said.

That was all he could say, because anything else would be to admit too much.

“Good. So tell me.” Evangeline removed the lid of the container and scooped out a cream-coloured paste with her finger. “Why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not,” Felix said, wincing as his mother began to smear the paste around his eye. The bruise was still tender.

“Your reaction every time you see me suggests otherwise.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Felix insisted.

Evangeline drew her hand away and looked at Felix directly.

“What then?” she demanded.

Felix cast his eyes to the floor. Evangeline sighed.

“Felix, I do not want there to be secrets between us. I know you are a man now and less in need of me than ever before. But you are still my son, and the only person left to me.”

The pain in her voice was something Felix was too familiar with. He had heard her speak this way frequently in the months after Glenn’s death. At the time, he swore that he would never allow his mother to feel that way again. Would never again hear her scream the way she had on that horrible morning.

Felix folded his arms over his chest as Evangeline dabbed more paste around his eye.

“I’m not angry,” he repeated.

Evangeline sighed as she put down the container and picked up a cosmetic brush.

“Let me try a different approach,” she said. “Why are you so bothered by the way I dress?”

Felix reddened, humiliated at being caught out.

“I…don’t…” he spluttered.

“Do you think it is a ruse to snare a new husband?” Evangeline interrupted. “Have you been comparing me to those young women who pay court to you and Dimitri?”

Felix shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. He despised those women and their follies.

“Do not be afraid to admit you find me embarrassing. I can endure it.” Evangeline shrugged. “Perhaps you think I should dress like a matron or widow. But this is what I was taught to do, Felix, from the moment I was old enough to walk. In my family, women don’t wield swords or fight wars. You know that. You’ve met your grandparents.”

“Mother,” Felix protested.

Evangeline threw the lid from another container aside and dipped the brush into the powder it held. She tapped the brush handle twice against the table, causing the powder to churn in the air.

“Does it worry you that I might be seeking to replace your father?” she asked.

Felix knew that he had to admit the truth or she would continue to throw ridiculous accusations at him.

“It’s not that, mother,” he said. “I…it bothers me that you don’t.”

The cosmetic brush froze in mid-air. Evangeline frowned.

“Replace your father?” she asked, confusion heavy in her voice.

Felix nodded as he looked away. It was easier to talk when he didn’t have to look people in the eye.

“You dress up like this, but you refuse everyone who approaches you,” he said. “You talk about how you are faithful to father. Or say that even though he’s dead, he’s still your husband. This whole performance…it makes me sick. It’s just like his drivel about duty and chivalry and all that crap.”

Evangeline replaced the brush on the dressing table. She rested one hand over Felix’s as she knelt down beside him, ignoring the way her dress scrunched up under her knees. Which was odd for her. Felix looked up and saw tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

“My son,” Evangeline said, “it’s not a performance.”

Guilt bloomed in Felix’s gut. The tone of Evangeline’s voice, the earnest expression on her face, told him she was being honest.

“There are mornings when I wake up and think I will die with the pain of your father not being there,” she said. “I can do nothing but weep. Other days it is bearable and I manage some semblance of normalcy. But every day, regardless of how I feel, I have to face reality. It may sound foolish, but dressing up like I do is one of the tricks I use to survive. It reminds me of him. Because every day that I came down to breakfast in some silly dress or with the latest ridiculous hairstyle, your father would look at me and smile.”

Felix remembered that. The smile was always followed by his father rising to pull out his mother’s chair. His mother blushing as his father whispered something in her ear. As a young boy, Felix had been embarrassed by their behaviour.

Evangeline lifted a hand to Felix’s face, as had been her habit since when he was a child.

“Your father is a hard act to follow,” she said. “I couldn’t replace him if I searched for the rest of my life.”

“He abandoned you for his duty,” Felix said.

“What could I do?” Evangeline asked. “Your father was devoted to Lambert, and so devoted to his son. That is something I think you understand.”

Felix had to admit that he did, but he would never say it aloud. Nonetheless, Evangeline smiled as though she read his thoughts. She kissed Felix’s cheek before standing.

“I never intended to be a widow this young. But I would rather be your father’s widow than another man’s wife.”

Evangeline picked up the cosmetic brush again. Felix wrapped his fingers around her wrist, to stop her from continuing. She raised an eyebrow.

“Mother,” he said.

Felix took a deep breath. He was definitely not accustomed to apologising. But this was one he had been holding in for more than a year, and it was time to voice it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring him home to you.”

Evangeline’s expression was hard to read, wavering between sadness and pain, but with joy somehow mixed in.

“Felix, that was not your responsibility,” she said with a firmness that startled him. “No one could have prevented your father from doing what he did. His devotion to his ideals is one of the reasons I love him.”

Felix did not comment on the fact that she spoke of Rodrigue in the present tense. It was too painful.

“But what is left?” he asked in frustration. “What did his death achieve?”

“You know what it achieved. It brought Dimitri back to us. It changed the course of the war. Before your father died, no one knew how the fighting would end.”

“You deserved more.”

“I deserved nothing. I already had more than I could ask for. My husband cared for me and gave me two wonderful sons.”

“And then…”

“No, Felix. Your father did not cause Glenn’s death,” Evangeline said. “Your father loved you boys more than anyone else in the world. Even Dimitri,” she added, stalling Felix’s objection. “No, Glenn died following his own ideals. Your father was miles away, devoting time to his younger son.”

Felix pursed his lips, annoyed that she made the same argument he had used so recently with Dimitri. Taking his silence as victory, Evangeline began to dust powder across his eye. Felix allowed her to claim the win, knowing that there was no point in resurrecting their old argument about his father’s sermons on Glenn’s honourable death.

By the time Evangeline had finished, Felix’s bruise was sufficiently covered that in the golden light of the chandeliers and candles it would only be noticed by people standing close to him. Evangeline smiled in satisfaction. It cheered Felix to see it.

“Are you happy, mother?” he asked quietly.

Evangeline looked surprised again, making Felix wonder if he really was always horrible to her. He would have to be more careful of his behaviour.

“Of course,” she said. Then she paused, considering. “There is only one thing I wish: that my son had inherited a few less of my traits.”

“And more of his father’s?” Felix scoffed.

“I have to admit, I always preferred Rodrigue to myself,” she said.

Felix rolled his eyes as he stood. “Thank you, mother.”

“One more thing.”

Felix turned back to Evangeline. She placed her hands on his shoulders.

“You should find someone to talk to about your cares and worries,” she said. “I know you don’t like to speak to me. That is understandable. And you don’t like to talk to Dimitri because he will try to fix things. You could never burden Sylvain. So please, Felix, find someone you can trust.”

Felix pushed away the emptiness that her words provoked.

“I don’t think that’s for me, mother,” he said. “That kind of trust inevitably leads towards some sort of stronger attachment.”

“And is that a bad thing?”

Felix shrugged. Evangeline sighed and dropped her hands.

“Let’s go to the party then,” she said. “I want to dance with my son.”

**III: The King’s Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)**

Dimitri dropped down onto the chair in his dressing room and turned the letter from Garreg Mach over in his hands. After dismissing Felix and Dedue, Dimitri had returned to his rooms, put the letter aside, and occupied himself with a dozen unnecessary tasks. But it haunted him even while he tried to focus on other things.

Dimitri had given up hope of a reply to his horrendous letter to Byleth. The night after he gave it to the runner, he had woken in horror at the memory of what it contained. A mess of words barely concealing his desperate desire to see her. But by then it had been too late and he could only pray the letter went missing.

This reply meant it had not. Dimitri had to face the fact that Byleth had received it and read it.

The letter was thinner than Byleth’s usual correspondence, couldn’t be more than a single sheet. And why had she sent it by express wyvern messenger? That meant either disaster, or…

Biting back his fear, Dimitri broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

It was one sheet.

He finished reading it in less than a minute.

Despair swallowing him, Dimitri closed his eyes tightly. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t written by Byleth. The lack of familiarity and affection in the words meant it could be a letter from any person in all of Fódlan.

But looking at the page again, the handwriting attested to the truth. Dimitri knew Byleth’s handwriting intimately from the dozens of times he had read and re-read her other letters. The cursive scrawl was, without a doubt, hers.

It had finally happened. Dimitri folded the letter and pressed against the seal. The wax cracked under his thumb. Byleth had moved on. She had finally come to her senses about him.

A knock on the door announced Rhys’s arrival. Dimitri stood up as his manservant opened the door and entered.

“Your Majesty,” Rhys said, pausing to bow.

Dimitri nodded in reply, lamenting the fact that he had lost the only person in the world who wasn’t conditioned to bow every time they saw him. Even Felix unconsciously tilted forward whenever they met. But Byleth had never bowed to Dimitri except when required by ceremony.

Rhys approached Dimitri. He lifted his hands to undo the buttons of Dimitri’s jacket, but stopped when he saw the letter.

“Can I put that away for you, sire?” Rhys asked.

Dimitri exhaled.

“Yes,” he said, releasing the letter into Rhys’s care.

Rhys disappeared into Dimitri’s private office. Dimitri turned towards the mirror, beginning to unbutton his jacket himself. He knew Rhys would put the letter in the wrong place, with the pile of correspondence from titled lords and ladies of Fódlan. Dimitri tried to convince himself that was where it belonged. Amongst official correspondence and not private.

When Rhys returned, he brushed Dimitri’s hands aside and took over the task of undressing him.

“Did the audience go well, Your Majesty?” he asked.

Rhys’s conversation was mostly out of politeness. Stories passed quickly through the castle staff, and Rhys knew more than Dimitri about the latest news and rumours. It was part of a manservant’s job. Part that Dimitri did not take advantage of, which often made him wonder if he was a disappointment to Rhys.

“I think it did,” Dimitri said as Rhys circled around him to pull off his jacket. “A good start.”

“I am glad to hear it, sire.”

The conversation ceased as Rhys continued with his work. That, unfortunately, left Dimitri to his own thoughts. While Rhys tugged Dimitri’s arms into his shirt and then tunic, Dimitri rehearsed the toast he was to give after dinner. It gave him something to focus on other than the brief words of Byleth’s letter. That she had closed with the archbishop’s blessing. That she had signed off with the words _your friend_.

“Sire,” Rhys said suddenly.

Dimitri’s vision cleared and he saw Rhys holding up a golden belt that had once belonged to Dimitri’s father. It had somehow survived the war, passing to Dimitri, and had sat unused in the treasury since his coronation.

“Apologies,” Dimitri said, lifting his arms so the valet could wrap it around his body.

“Forgive me, sire, but you seem nervous.”

Dimitri shook his head. As though the action would make it true.

“There are many things on my mind,” he said.

“Forgive me, sire. I didn’t mean to pry. If you sit, sire, I’ll do your hair.”

Dimitri obeyed, pulling off his eye patch as he did. Rhys plucked it out of his hand and put it aside.

When Rhys disappeared to confirm whether it was time for Dimitri to go to the banquet, Dimitri turned towards his office. He should try to make every moment useful. But as he did, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Astonished, he stopped and stared.

During the planning for the Founding Day banquet, Dimitri had decided that the event should be free of uniforms, not only to prevent reminders of the war, but also to avoid any comparison of numbers between the former nations and Faerghus. So instead of the military suit that was originally earmarked for the occasion, Rhys had dug out a formal blue tunic from Dimitri’s last days as crown prince. It had been sent to the tailor and adjusted to accommodate Dimitri’s final growth spurt. A blue short cape had been added, hanging from tasselled fastenings on the shoulders. The golden belt, matching the tunic’s trim, replaced the leather one he had used to wear with it. His black trousers were perfectly pressed and his boots polished to an appalling shine. To complete the illusion, Rhys used the king’s circlet to hold his bangs away from his face, allowing the rest of his hair (which looked unusually neat) to fall to his shoulders.

Barring the ever present eye patch, Dimitri saw a king. He saw the king that unfortunate crown prince, who had idolised his father and cared for nothing but honour, could have become if he had been given the chance. If he had not witnessed his family murdered or his country brought to ruin. Had not grovelled in the slums or swung a lance. If he had not been forced to bear endless separation from the ones he loved.

Rhys re-entered the room.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “the lords and ladies are gathered. The Master of Ceremonies informs me that dinner will be ready an hour hence and that the orchestra has started playing.”

“Then it is time,” Dimitri said.

He would leave things that belonged in the past there, Dimitri decided. And if Byleth had decided that she wanted no more from him then friendship based on their positions, he would grant her that. From here on, he would be the person he could see in the mirror.

With one last look to convince himself that it was possible, Dimitri walked through the door Rhys was holding open for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so obviously I have more of a thing for Felix than I realised. And don't worry too much – Dimitri is brilliant at making promises to himself and breaking them. He can't dismiss Byleth that easily. I do think that he would still feel like he is playing dress-ups though, especially this early in his reign.
> 
> Byleth has been a little neglected over the last few chapters, but she will be playing a bigger role in the next chapter. Then we will be onto some more political issues as Dimitri finally outlines his plans to the nobility.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Curses and Blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne makes a confession to Byleth. New threats reveal themselves in Enbarr and at Garreg Mach.

**I: Enbarr | Founding Day eve  
Before Midnight**

Mercedes accepted the flagon from the barkeep. The odd group of people who had gathered around her in the hours since she entered the famous Enbarr pub cheered.

“I am not sure this is a good idea,” she said, regarding the dark ale inside the flagon. “I am not in the habit of indulging quite as enthusiastically as all of you.”

“Exactly why you must now!” Hector, a burly construction worker originally from the western coast, exclaimed. “It’s Founding Day!”

Mercedes cast a look at Ashe. He shrugged with a grin. Realising that he was not going to be any help, Mercedes tightened her grip on the flagon’s handle and lifted it to her lips. The closer she came to drinking, the louder the noise around her grew. When she finally tipped the stuff into her mouth, the cheer was deafening.

But the moment Mercedes tasted the ale, she choked and slammed the flagon down onto the bar. The ale splashed across the bench.

“It’s vile!” she proclaimed.

Her company broke into a round of guffaws and whoops while Mercedes spluttered. Meanwhile Ashe pushed between the merry group and pressed a glass of sweet wine into Mercedes’s hand.

“You should not tease a lady of standing,” Ashe criticised gently.

“Who’s this then, your lover?” Grain, unfortunately named for his family’s main crop, snorted.

Ashe didn’t blush. It had been a long time since Mercedes had seen him be embarrassed by such comments.

“Just an old friend,” he answered. “We met in Enbarr by chance.”

Hector dropped an arm across Ashe’s shoulders.

“And why would you let this be just a friend?” he drawled, gesturing up and down Mercedes’s body.

The moment he did, the company turned sour for Mercedes. She sighed and turned away.

“I have a wife back home,” she heard Ashe reply.

“Wife?” Hector blurted. “Goddess, you’re not even out of short trousers yet! How’d ya come by one of them?”

On the other side of the pub, Mercedes spotted a miraculously empty table. She navigated through the crowd towards it.

The pub was packed to bursting with people taking advantage of the holiday. Ale, beer, and wine all flowed freely, with many eagerly purchasing a round in the hope that others would take up the burden of the next few. Surprisingly, many of the revellers wore some sort of blue token, matching the wash of colour in the street that Mercedes had admired on her way to the pub. All day workers had fussed throughout the city, decorating it with blue streamers and flags bearing the Blaiddyd emblem.

As Mercedes sat down, a group of drunken factory workers began a loud rendition of an old Faerghus war anthem. She watched as more people crowded around them and joined in. The words were not quite correct, but it seemed like an honest effort.

Unexpected considering the prevailing mood in Enbarr.

Mercedes had never known the great capital of the former Empire as a happy place. When she had visited as a child, the fear that haunted the streets was strong Mercedes had been frightened to go outside. She remembered clearly the argument with her mother that had followed. When she was finally forced into the streets, Mercedes had clung to her mother’s skirts, terrified of the people who rushed past wearing hooded cloaks and wide-brimmed hats.

These days, the fear that had been directed towards the Houses Aegir and Vestra had found a new object. The people of Enbarr were not convinced by the rebuilding projects or the generous rationing tickets. A large number of them believed Fhirdiad would soon place the burden of taxes upon them. That Dimitri would remove the Adrestian noble titles, rendering the region voiceless in government. That soldiers from Faerghus would march into the city and flatten it. Nothing could convince them of the foolishness of those beliefs. And Mercedes had tried many times.

The further Mercedes travelled, the more she realised how much work was left to be done before peace truly existed in Fódlan. It made it difficult to choose the place where she would finally plant her roots. How would she ever decide who needed her help the most?

“Do you mind?”

Mercedes blinked and looked up in surprise at the man who stood by her table. He was tall, but leaning heavily on the crutch lodged under his left arm. His features were hard, but not unkind, although marred by a splotchy red mark that reached from the corner of his eye, across his cheek, and down underneath his collar. The mark also appeared on his left hand, which he was currently using to indicate one of the empty chairs at Mercedes’s table.

Mercedes jumped to her feet.

“Of course not!” she said, reaching out to help him.

The man shook his head at her offer. He pulled out the chair and sat down, breathing out a long sigh as he stretched his legs in front of him. Mercedes noticed that the left one was unable to straighten properly.

Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Do not worry yourself,” the man replied. “The barkeep knows me and will bring something soon enough.”

True to the man’s word, a waitress appeared with a flagon a few minutes later. The man passed her a coin before drinking deeply of the ale.

For a long time, they both sat in silence. While the man watched the people in the bar, Mercedes’s eyes were continually drawn to him. His wounds were intriguing. They were clearly magical in origin. The mark on his hand suggested that the burn covered the entire left side of his body. His dark hair only grew in patches, another symptom of a magical attack. Even his bent leg could be related. What confused Mercedes was that, to her eyes, all of the injuries could be easily treated.

“Please pardon my asking,” Mercedes said.

The man turned his head and considered her. Mercedes paused, allowing him time to protest. He did not.

“Were you a soldier?” she continued.

The man nodded. “Fought at the Battle of Enbarr.”

Mercedes laced her fingers together.

“I hope you won’t think me rude, but have you sought treatment for your wounds? I am a healer by trade, and they do not look overly complicated to reverse.”

The man lifted a hand to his face.

“This?” he asked. “It’s quite hideous, isn’t it? I had a mage look at it in the early days, but they all charged quite hefty fees back then. At the time I thought I’d rather keep my scars than lose the money.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Mercedes said. “I wouldn’t charge you.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Now why would you do that?”

“The goddess encourages us to show charity.”

“Then are you a cleric?”

Mercedes shook her head. “It is something I am considering, but I have not yet taken vows.”

“Ah,” the soldier scoffed, looking back across the pub.

A little perturbed by his reaction, Mercedes let out a harrumph. The man laughed and lifted his flagon.

“You’re not from Enbarr,” he stated.

“No, but I am originally from Adrestia,” Mercedes said.

“Originally?”

“My mother took me to Faerghus when I was a child.”

“I see.” The man indulged in a long draught of ale. “Well, I can’t fault you for something that happened when you were a child. But neither the church nor people from Faerghus are well thought of here. Many would blame you for your history and your possible future.”

Mercedes squirmed in discomfort. She tapped her temple with two fingers as though thinking. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ashe slip through the crowd.

“But Adrestia is part of the Kingdom now,” she said carefully. “Presently its leaders are in Fhirdiad, reaffirming their fealty to the king. Even the streets attest to the new order of things.”

The man lifted an eyebrow.

“I am left with little doubt as to which side you supported during the war,” he said.

Mercedes remained silent. She usually avoided talking about her role in the war. It was difficult to speak of it without revealing her proximity to Dimitri. Disclosing that she was on first name terms with the king was unwise in most company, but with this man it seemed dangerous.

“Think of it this way,” the man said, leaning across the table towards her. “If the war had gone the other way, do you think Faerghus would have quietly shown its belly to Adrestia?”

Mercedes cautiously searched for Ashe, wondering if he had noticed her signal or had just happened to move when she gave it. Although it was true that they had not planned to meet in Enbarr, she couldn’t help but think it was fortunate that, of all her acquaintances, it was him she had stumbled upon.

“Trust me.”

The tone in the soldier’s voice drew Mercedes’s eyes back to him. He stared directly at her with an expression was cold and scarily familiar. The scowl of an enemy as they delivered the death blow.

“It may seem like Adrestia is tamed, but its claws are still sharp. Decorating the streets will not turn this city’s heart blue. You and that spy,” the man said, gesturing to the place where Ashe had been, “can tell your king that he deserves what is about to happen.”

Mercedes kept her posture straight, her face neutral.

“And who may I say sends the message?”

The man laughed.

“Nice try. Farewell, Mercedes von Martritz.”

The man drew his crutch under his arm as he stood. Mercedes remained seated while he disappeared into the crowd.

“Mercedes,” Ashe said, dropping into the chair beside her.

“Did you hear that?” Mercedes asked.

Ashe nodded. “We need to get a message to Dimi…”

“I think it is too late,” Mercedes said thoughtfully.

**II: Cathedral (Garreg Mach Monastery) **

As soon as mass finished, Byleth retreated to the antechamber that had been temporarily set up as a dressing room for her. It was half an hour to midnight. Although all Byleth wanted to do was fall into bed, she was required in the entrance hall to give a final benediction and farewell to the faithful who had made the long journey to the monastery. Many would spend Founding Day travelling back to their homes, to return to work again the day after.

Byleth removed the cape of the archbishop’s robes. She was glad that Seteth had conceded that the robes were not technically required for the final audience. She had been wearing them all day. With her exhaustion they had grown heavy, and she looked forward to changing into the simple white dress and bronze hairband that lay waiting on the sofa.

A knock on the door startled her. She turned to see Marianne standing there.

“Your Grace?” the noble asked timidly, twisting her hands together.

“Marianne,” Byleth greeted. She lifted the mitre from her head and put it aside. “Is something wrong?”

“I…it isn’t important, but I just…”

Marianne paused, casting her eyes to the ground. Byleth gently drew her into the antechamber and closed the door.

“I won’t bite, Marianne,” she joked as she guided her to the sofa, pushing the dress out of the way.

Marianne sat down gracefully despite her apparent preoccupation with wringing her hands. Byleth felt a twinge of envy. If only her father had taught her how to behave like a noblewoman. But of course, she could not blame her father. How could he have foreseen she would be an archbishop and not a mercenary?

“I do not want you to misunderstand, Your Grace,” Marianne said suddenly. “I was worried all through mass that you thought badly of me.”

Byleth sat down beside Marianne.

“Does this, by any chance, relate to what Lysithea said this morning?” she guessed.

Marianne’s hands stilled. Her eyes widened.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Do not worry,” Byleth said with a smile. “I’ve already forgotten.”

“It was wrong of her to say it, but it was even more wrong of me to even feel it,” Marianne whispered.

“Marianne,” Byleth said, digging her nails into her palms, “a person cannot always control their emotions. I know that Dimitri was very kind to you. It is not surprising.”

“But no one was ever supposed to know,” Marianne said. “Especially you.”

There was a strange twinge in Byleth’s chest.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly.

Marianne folded her hands in her lap shyly.

“When one has loved from a distance for so long, one easily recognises its symptoms in others.”

Byleth lifted a hand to her head as it suddenly began to ache. Whether from her exhaustion after the long day or because of the shock of learning Marianne knew the truth, she could not tell.

“Marianne, I…”

“Your Grace, you needn’t worry,” Marianne said quickly. “I know the truth of my situation. His Majesty was kinder to me than any other person at Garreg Mach, but his behaviour was always based on nothing more than friendship. During the last months of the war, the more I was drawn to him, the more I saw how desperately in love he was with you.”

“And me?” Byleth wavered.

The shadow of a smile appeared on Marianne’s face. “Forgive me, but you have never been very expressive of your emotions.”

Byleth exhaled.

“However, there was a certain look you had for Dimitri alone.”

Byleth turned away from Marianne to try and hide her reddening cheeks. She had thought they kept it so secret.

“Do not be embarrassed, Your Grace,” Marianne said kindly. “Although I can never hope for such a thing, it is perfectly natural for someone like you to love and be loved.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that about yourself,” Byleth murmured.

“It is of no consequence.”

“You are a wonderful person, Marianne, and entirely deserving of love,” Byleth insisted. She rested a hand on Marianne’s arm. “Besides, if that is truly how you feel…” Byleth took another deep breath, knowing how painful the next words would be to say, “you should not give up on Dimitri. You know a lot about the church. And knowing, as you do, how Dimitri and I once felt about each other, you must understand why we lead separate lives. Our positions mean there can be nothing between us.”

Marianne nodded sadly. “I had suspected as much,” she said.

“So there is no reason to think that he would not return your feelings now,” Byleth finished hurriedly, smiling at Marianne to hide her discomfort.

In response, Marianne frowned. “I think there is every reason,” she said, before standing. “I am sorry for interrupting you, Your Grace.”

The twinge in Byleth’s chest had grown to a steady throb throughout the conversation. She panicked as Marianne moved to leave, knowing that she had to distract herself from the pain.

“Would you walk with me to the reception?” Byleth asked, jumping to her feet.

Marianne looked startled, but nodded.

“Just give me a moment to change,” Byleth said.

Before long Byleth and Marianne were walking together along the bridge between the monastery and cathedral. Although they walked in silence, Byleth was glad of the company. It eased the pain a little. And silence was better than speaking of Dimitri.

It wasn’t until they drew close to the entrance hall that Byleth remembered the other curious thing Lysithea had said that morning. She seized on it as a possible, better distraction from the jealousy, regret, and sadness.

“Marianne,” Byleth said, “Lysithea mentioned that I could ask Claude about the complications of marriage. But I wasn’t aware that Claude was married.”

Marianne grimaced.

“Honestly, I hoped you had forgotten that, Your Grace,” she said. “It is something else that should not be spoken of.”

“Then Claude is married?”

“Just before the battle at Derdriu. Claude and Hilda were married with the Golden Deer as witnesses.”

Byleth blinked. The pain eased somewhat, replaced with surprise.

“But Hilda is still in Fódlan,” she said.

Marianne nodded. “I do not know the details, but Hilda insisted Claude had good reasons for keeping their marriage secret. It followed that when Claude left Fódlan, Hilda had to stay behind. She is waiting for him to come back.”

“Does she know when Claude will return?”

Marianne shook her head. Byleth forced a smile as the ache returned, this time as much for Hilda as for herself.

“Well, I promise to keep the secret,” Byleth said. “Although I may have to congratulate Hilda when I next see her.”

Byleth lead the way into the entrance hall. She was immediately confronted with hundreds of people, many of them familiar from the mass service. Byleth smiled as she walked between them, towards where Seteth waited at the top of the steps leading down to the main gate. Reaching him, she turned back to face the crowd.

“Are you ready?” Seteth asked in an undertone.

“It’s just like mass, isn’t it?” Byleth replied with more confidence than she felt at that moment.

The people hushed as Byleth looked out across them. She saw Flayn standing at the front beside one of the columns, hands clasped together and a large smile on her face. Marianne had taken a less prominent spot by the wall. Cyril and Shamir were nestled amongst the knights, while Alois took his place prominently at the front as their captain.

“The goddess’s blessing be upon you all,” Byleth began.

“Death to the pretenders!”

The shout was harsh. Byleth fell silent, searching the crowd for the person responsible. But there were too many people and the echo of the yell made it impossible to determine where it had originated from.

Byleth glanced at Seteth. He lifted a hand, gesturing for her to continue. When Byleth looked back at the people, she saw the knights resting their hands on their weapons.

Sothis, Byleth prayed as she began to speak again.

“For travelling to this sacred ground…”

“Death to the Nabateans!”

This time the shout sent a flurry of murmuring throughout the hall. Byleth wondered if it was because of the strange word. She had never heard it before and could not fathom what it meant. But she saw Flayn turn white.

Seteth stepped up beside Byleth as Alois emerged from the crowd and faced it. The murmuring stilled as the people saw the captain of the Knights of Seiros glaring at them.

“Keep going,” Seteth urged.

Taking a deep breath, Byleth opened her mouth.

“Destroy the Fell Star!”

This time Byleth was quick enough, whipping her eyes to the right side of the crowd. She saw a masked man dressed entirely in black.

A flash of light and boom stole her senses as she was thrown backwards.

Byleth hit the slope of the stairs. Sharp pain shot through her body as she felt her skin tear. She gripped at the steps with her hands, pressing her feet against the stone to stop herself from sliding any further down.

Screams registered in her ringing ears. Byleth tested her limbs, her combat training taking over. Her body was sore, but functioning. She had been hit with a spell. Which one, she did not know. But she had to get up and fight because now there were people in trouble. People who needed her.

Pushing herself up, Byleth saw chaos. People stampeded past her towards the main gate. She could see bodies on the ground, being trampled on by others in their desperation to escape.

Byleth fought the flow of people to the top of the stairs. The air was thick with magic and spells. People were falling, writhing on the floor, screeching in pain.

“Flayn! Please, no!”

Seteth’s distinctive voice drew Byleth’s attention. She saw Seteth on his knees, pulling an unresponsive Flayn into his lap.

“Your Grace!”

Shamir was there, grabbing Byleth’s arm.

“Your Grace, come with me!” Shamir shouted.

“Give me a sword,” Byleth replied.

In her mind she was cursing her foolishness. The Sword of the Creator was hidden under lock in her quarters, separate even from the monastery’s treasures because of its importance.

“Your Grace, there isn’t time!”

Byleth saw Marianne cowering against the wall, sheltering a child. The knights were pushing through the crowd, trying to find the perpetrators. But it was too late. People were dead. Byleth knew it, she could see it. Flayn was dead.

Without another thought, Byleth squeezed her eyes shut and called upon the power that slept dormant inside her. She felt a rush, heard the howling of air as tendrils of time swept her hair around her face. Her pain disappeared and the screaming stopped.

Byleth opened her eyes and saw the crowd standing attentively before her.

“Are you ready?” Seteth asked.

“It’s just like mass, isn’t it?”

Byleth’s fingers were tingling. She looked towards the right side of the crowd and saw only villagers from Garreg Mach Town.

“The goddess’s blessing be upon you all.”

“Death to the pretenders!”

Byleth cursed silently. The shout had not come from where the masked man had been.

“For travelling to this sacred ground…”

“Death to the Nabateans!”

As the murmuring began Byleth realised there was more than one enemy. And still the masked man was not there.

“Keep going.”

Byleth locked eyes with the masked man as he materialised from nowhere.

“Destroy the Fell Star!”

Byleth jumped to the left, crashing into Seteth as the spell shot past them, finding no target.

This time, Byleth saw the moment the congregation panicked. Saw the alarm in people’s eyes as they began to flee. Magic fogged the air as the stampede began.

Byleth pushed away from Seteth and sprinted towards Flayn. She tugged the girl behind the column, covering her with her own body. There was a loud crack as splinters of stone scattered across the floor, blasted from the column by a powerful spell.

“Professor?”

Flayn seemed to have spoken in shock. She stared with wide eyes as Byleth jumped back to her feet.

This time, Byleth saw the culprits amongst the people. She threw Fire towards a woman dressed entirely in black. The woman laughed and disappeared.

“Byleth!”

Seteth grabbed Byleth and shielded her from a man sprinting towards them, his knife flashing in the torchlight. Byleth cursed as she remembered that she still did not have Sword, but then Alois was between them and the man. The knight deflected the knife with his sword and counterattacked, but the man was already gone. Vanished into thin air.

“Are you all right?” Seteth asked, releasing Byleth.

“Yes, I…”

Byleth trailed off as she saw the bodies on the ground. She saw Marianne protecting the child and Shamir chasing after a shadowy figure. She saw a mother lying still as her child shook her frantically, and a cleric summoning healing magic over a man bleeding from the head.

The cries of the people were answered with manic laughter that bounced off the walls. Nothing had changed.

Fury carried Byleth into the chaos. She dodged terrified civilians and searched out the monsters in black. She knew who they were, after Remire, after the chapel. The Ones who revelled in death.

Finally, she spotted the man wearing the mask. He was strolling easily through the crowd, throwing spells at villagers, churchgoers, clerics alike.

Goddess, Byleth hated masks. She lifted her hands and summoned Bolganone.

The man paused as he saw her. The mask only covered half of his face. Underneath it, a wicked smile spread across his lips.

“Who are you?” Byleth demanded.

The man sprung before Byleth could cast the spell. His hand shot out and wrapped around Byleth’s neck. Her magic extinguished as she gasped for air.

“We were only after you and the Nabateans,” the man said.

He lifted Byleth off the ground with the one hand. Byleth scratched at him, trying to break his grip, as she began to choke. This was impossible, her mind kept screaming.

“You involved all these other people by fighting us,” the man continued. “What other proof do we need, that you should be destroyed?”

Light flashed around the man’s other hand, purple and black. Byleth recognised the summoning of Dark Spikes.

Then, from nowhere, a blur of green and black collided with the masked man. Byleth fell to the ground, wheezing and coughing. A moment later Flayn landed beside her and pulled her upright.

“Professor!” Flayn squeaked. “Are you…”

Byleth pushed Flayn aside as a purple gust flew towards them. She heard Flayn’s yelp, and then all she knew was the burning of a thousand needles in her flesh, digging deep into her bones and ripping apart her soul. She opened her mouth, but heard no sound.

It ended.

Byleth hit the hard, cold floor. Above her, she saw shadows hovering, heard familiar voices calling her name.

“Byleth?”

“Your Grace!”

“Professor…”

Byleth closed her eyes. A blurred image danced on her eyelids, a pale face with a kind and gentle blue eye. A deep voice spoke her name with more love than she thought existed in the world.

“Dimitri,” she whispered.

Her consciousness slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was editing this chapter I realised that back in chapter 3 I foolishly placed Ashe in Fhirdiad, which did not give him anywhere near enough time to travel to Enbarr and bump into Mercedes. As such I have made a minor edit to chapter 3, putting Ashe in Varley territory at that point in time.
> 
> Thank you for all your recent comments and kudos!


	11. The End of the Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Founding Day banquet comes the ball. In front of a crowd much larger than anticipated, Sylvain's hatred of Dimitri and Felix comes to a head.

**I: Ballroom, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad) | Founding Day  
After Midnight **

Despite his recent vow to be the king the people deserved, Dimitri remained certain that he was not suited for occasions such as the one he was hosting. The banquet was one thing, but the ball that followed another one entirely.

He had once, on the night of the Garreg Mach ball, told Byleth that he was not one for parties. The admission had caused Dimitri more anxiety than he dared admit. Every other occasion on which he had expressed a distaste for balls and dancing, he was firmly reprimanded and reminded that there was no room for reticence in a crown prince.

Byleth, as always, had reacted differently. She had listened in silence. Smiled when he lied and said he was going to return to the ball. She had not even chastised him when she found him in the same place she had gone to escape.

Dimitri smiled as he remembered his foolish behaviour that night at the Goddess Tower. He wondered if Byleth had recognised his crush. He had smothered it after her apparent death, not imagining she would find her way back to him or that it would return with greater fervour. But afterwards…he had never asked her if she had known back then. Although, thinking more carefully on it, perhaps he wasn’t sure he wished to know the answer to that particular question.

Regardless, Dimitri thought as he pulled himself back to the present ball, tonight all timidity and hesitation had to be put aside. His guests were spread across the ballroom before him, chattering, drinking wine, and partnering off to dance. The mad spinning around the floor had not ceased since Dimitri opened the ball with Evangeline. After finishing the first dance he had carefully avoided the crush of couples, but it was beyond time to throw himself back into the fray.

With a deep breath to steady himself, Dimitri approached one of the new Adrestian nobles. Viscount Lucas and his family occupied what had formerly been Arundel territory. His daughter had accompanied him to the Fhirdiad, and now stood quietly beside him.

Julia was pretty, with large silver eyes and curled orange locks that cascaded over her shoulders. As Dimitri joined them, she dropped into a deep curtesy. So deep that she was basically kneeling, which wasn’t at all necessary. But Dimitri knew that this was her first appearance at an event of this scale, so he just smiled and held out his hand to help her to her feet.

“Do me the honour of this dance?” he asked.

Julia nodded. Dimitri saw Lucas smirk in triumph, doubtless reading much into the fact that Julia was the first of the Adrestian nobles to be approached by the king. He needn’t have gotten so excited. Dimitri would perform his duty and dance with at least one woman from every noble house before the ball ended.

There was a stab of rebellion in his chest at the thought. There were twenty-one noble houses present. With Evangeline down, twenty to go. It was only just past midnight. The ball would not end till the early hours of morning.

It was going to be a very long night.

A smattering of applause greeted Dimitri’s return to the dance floor. He led Julia between the couples. At the centre of the floor, he turned to face her. Taking her hand with one of his and placing the other at her waist, he waited.

The orchestra struck up a new dance and the torment began.

“How do you find Fhirdiad?” Dimitri asked, deciding on inane conversation. That would give Lucas less to misinterpret when he interrogated his daughter.

“Cold,” Julia replied in a tone of voice that suggested utter boredom. She turned her face to the right so she did not have to look at him.

Seiros save me, Dimitri thought.

The next five minutes felt longer than any dance in Dimitri’s life. Julia resisted every attempt at conversation, limiting all answers to no more than three words. When the dance finally ended, Dimitri politely but gratefully led her back to her father and bolted.

His dance with Esther von Bergliez was just as painful. By the time Dimitri released her to her cousin, he was beginning to suspect a plot. The heads of the Adrestian families may have renewed their vows of fealty that afternoon, but the women were clearly determined to let Dimitri know his place.

Unable to bear another dance of terse silence, Dimitri turned towards the corner where the Leicester nobles had gathered. He made a beeline for Hilda, who was holding court at the centre of a crowd of at least a dozen men. As he approached, the pinkette laughed cheerfully while turning her head to bestow favour on a new fortunate fellow. But as she did, she saw Dimitri. She watched him stride towards her with her wine glass held halfway to her lips, which formed a perfect “o” of surprise.

Hilda, as always, looked stunning. Her hair spilled down her back, shining in the candlelight. She had selected a dark pink dress that hugged her figure and swept out in a bustle behind her, with successive flounces of fabric. Her shoulders were completely bare, which emphasised the elegant heart-shaped neckline of the dress, which in turn drew attention to her…

Dimitri shook his head, appalled with himself for letting his eye drift in that direction. He thought of Byleth, then angrily pushed her out of his mind too. Telling himself he had no reason to feel guilty for admiring other women, Dimitri held out his hand to Hilda.

“Hilda, would you dance with me?” he asked.

Hilda immediately passed her wine glass to one of her suitors and gracefully placed her hand in Dimitri’s. It felt like a moment in one of those romantic fairy tales that Annette always swooned over. And sure enough, one of Hilda’s suitors let loose a sigh of disappointment as Dimitri drew her towards the dance floor. As though he was stealing away the belle of the ball with the nefarious plan of keeping her in his arms all night.

Hilda quickly put an end to such stupid notions, even if it was in the mind of the wrong man.

“I’m only doing this because I can see how miserable you are dancing with those horrid women,” Hilda said as she rested light fingers on Dimitri’s shoulder. “If you hadn’t noticed, I have pointedly avoided dancing all evening.”

Dimitri smirked. “Come on, Hilda, you may be lazy, but I know you adore dancing.”

“It rather loses its appeal when there isn’t a decent partner in sight,” she sighed.

Dimitri glanced back at her collection of men. They all were watching with adoring and jealous expressions.

“Surely one of them is decent enough,” he said.

Hilda smiled, her eyes twinkling as they did when she was certain she was about to claim a victory over some poor, unsuspecting male.

“I swear, not a single one. These days there are only two men I deem worth the time,” she said. “Rest assured that one of them is you.”

“I’m honoured. And the other?”

“It’s a secret.”

Dimitri shrugged, not interested enough to pursue the topic further.

“How do you enjoy Fhirdiad?” he asked, turning towards his store of conversation topics.

Hilda snorted quite indelicately, before collecting herself and pasting a beatific smile across her face.

“Fhirdiad is absolutely delightful,” she murmured while fluttering her eyelashes. “The people are friendly and the weather is chilly.”

“You don’t need to mock me.”

She sobered, but continued to grin.

“Why do you find these events so difficult anyway?” Hilda asked. “It’s just a banquet and a ball.”

Dimitri couldn’t help but squirm under her exacting gaze. Even though it would be a relief to confide in someone, he didn’t want that someone to be Hilda. So he let his eyes wander around the hall to make sure everything was as it should be. Until Hilda sighed loudly.

“You should have taken some lessons from Claude,” she said. “He would have taught you how to loosen up.”

“I don’t think Claude could succeed in such a mammoth task, even if he had stayed.”

“He would have stayed if you asked for help.”

Dimitri blinked at the accusatory tone in Hilda’s voice.

“Byleth did ask for his help,” he pointed out, unable to fathom why she suddenly looked angry.

At that reminder, Hilda’s expression softened again.

“I forgot about that,” she said airily. “There really is no stopping you men from running like a bull down a path once you’ve decided upon it, is there?”

Dimitri decided not to contradict her. He suspected Hilda knew the nature of his mind better than he did. No one could read people like her. It was the secret to her success.

“Oh, look who it is,” Hilda exclaimed suddenly, looking across the ballroom at someone who had just darted towards the refreshment room.

**II: Refreshment Room, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)**

“Bernadetta von Varley.”

Sylvain saw the tiny woman tense at the sound of her name. She was perfectly still for a long moment. Sylvain knew that meant she was trying to decide whether to fight or flee. In his experience it was a rare occasion on which she chose the former, so he counted it a victory when she slowly turned around.

Bernadetta’s large, grey eyes blinked nervously at him as she tilted her pale face up to meet his gaze. Sylvain was slightly appalled at himself, but in a pleasant sort of way, when he felt a stab of attraction at the roses in her cheeks, the graceful sweep of her chin, and the narrow bow of her lips. Attraction. To Bernadetta, for the goddess’s sake. He didn’t want to become involved with her. There was a reason he avoided the many beautiful women who had formed part of his cohort at the academy.

Nonetheless, Sylvain couldn’t help but feel it was a shame about her odd haircut, which wouldn’t look out of place on a squire, and the fact that her gown covered every inch of her body right up to the buttoned collar at her neck. She would benefit from copying Hilda and selecting dresses that showed at least a little bit of skin.

“Lord Gautier,” Bernadetta pronounced with great care. “How lovely to see you.”

Sylvain lifted an eyebrow. “Come on, Bernie, it’s me. Why so formal?”

“Because you are Lord Gautier,” Bernadetta whispered as she wrung her hands together. “I have to speak to you properly.”

“Bernie, we studied together, fought a war together…”

“Not together.”

Her contradiction was so soft that Sylvain almost missed it. She was right, of course. Even he recalled that the last time he had been anywhere near Bernadetta was the battle at Gronder. But that was supposed to be in the past, right? That’s what they all kept telling him. That he had to put things in the past and forget they ever happened.

Laughter bubbled out of him. He realised that perhaps he had overdone it with the particularly fine wine Dimitri had procured for the occasion.

“Why don’t you dance with me, Bernie?” Sylvain asked jovially, holding out a hand to her.

“Please don’t,” Bernadetta said, her lips barely moving.

“Come on. You’re a beautiful woman. Just begging to be led the dance floor.”

Bernadetta blanched and hung her head. “I’m not begging,” she protested. “Please don’t.”

“I insist. You look utterly ravishing, Bernie, and I simply must dance with you.”

Sylvain grabbed her arm. Bernadetta yelped and tried to pull herself free as Sylvain dragged her towards the ballroom.

“Please, no, I don’t want to!”

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain groaned and let go of Bernadetta as Felix materialised out of nowhere.

“Duke Fraldarius!” Bernadetta squeaked.

Felix caught Bernadetta as she stumbled, all colour rushing from her face at his touch. The poor girl had always been terrified of Master Grouch.

“Lady Varley,” Felix responded, making sure she was safely upright before releasing her and turning his famous glare on Sylvain. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Sylvain folded his arms over his chest and blew a lock of hair from his eye.

“Language, Fraldarius,” he scolded. “You’re in front of a lady.”

“Whom you were dragging across the room in front of everyone, clearly against her will,” Felix replied through clenched teeth.

Sylvain laughed. It was fun, making Felix angry.

“She looked pathetic, standing there alone,” Sylvain said, not caring about the crowd gathering around them. “I was only trying to help.”

Bernadetta looked like she was about to be sick. Sylvain only felt a slight prick of guilt for insulting her. At least if he insulted her, her disgusting father wouldn’t pester him about marriage. Sylvain knew what Varley was about. Bernadetta would probably thank him later.

“Sylvain, you can say whatever you want about me, but you will not insult innocent bystanders in front of the entire court,” Felix snapped.

“Oh, what?” Sylvain goaded. “Running to defend damsels in distress now, Fraldarius? Chivalry finally got its claws in you? Are you going to challenge me to a duel?”

Felix was actually grinding his teeth together. It really was too easy.

“By Seiros, Bernadetta is a guest of the king,” Felix said. “What gives you the right to talk about her this way and then act like a petulant child…”

“Petulant child? Look who’s talking!”

“…when someone calls you out for it?”

Sylvain grinned. “Just as I thought. A duel. Swords? Knives? Or perhaps magic?”

Sylvain lifted his hand and summoned a simple fire spell. How he would love to throw it. Although they had both attempted magic lessons at the academy, Sylvain knew that Felix was as empty of magic as he was of feeling and would be unable to defend himself.

“No one will be duelling anyone, especially not in the middle of my home.”

Sylvain dismissed the magic with a cackle. He spun to face Dimitri, who stood just behind him. Hilda was there too, off to the right. Now there was a woman, Sylvain thought, pushing away the voice of self-loathing that darkly condemned him for betraying Ingrid.

As for Dimitri, he looked furious. Well, as furious as he allowed himself to become since the coronation. Sylvain almost missed those honest days after they were reunited, when Dimitri stamped around Garreg Mach with a hurricane on his face and cruel, vulgar words for anyone who dared talk to him. It was better than this weak ogre who masked his emotions with kingliness and ceremony.

Sylvain spread his hands wide and bowed.

“Your Majesty,” he intoned.

Dimitri reddened. Glad to have so easily provoked him as well, Sylvain straightened with a flourish.

“A thousand apologies for starting a fight in the middle of your _home_,” Sylvain said, casting his eyes around the room. “I pray, let me know the punishment and I will bear it. The stocks? A whipping? Or perhaps a slow death, ripped apart at the end of the king’s lance?”

The blood immediately rushed from Dimitri’s face completely, leaving him looking like a ghost. Such extreme reactions so close together. Sylvain was on the mark tonight.

And as Dimitri stood there, silent and frozen like a fool, Sylvain felt more satisfied with himself than he had in a long time. Could there be anything more pleasant than humiliating Dimitri in front of all his ridiculous, smitten, Crest-loving devotees?

A hand wrapped around Sylvain’s upper arm, trying to draw him away from Dimitri.

“Sylvain, you’re drunk,” Felix said urgently. With fear and concern. Goddess, the heckler was actually worried about his boar.

Sylvain broke free, spinning towards Felix and lifting a threatening hand.

“Touch me again and I’ll end you,” he hissed.

Felix stepped backwards, hands held up in surrender. Bernadetta was cowering behind him now, visibly shaking and muttering to herself.

“Well, that is quite enough of that.”

All eyes turned towards Hilda as she strode past Dimitri, straight up to Sylvain. Sylvain stared at her dumbly. She smiled sweetly, then reached out, grabbed his ear, and twisted it.

Sylvain cried out in pain, bending down to try and relieve the burn. Hilda did not let go.

“You’re making me work, Sylvain, and I really don’t appreciate it,” she said, her voice dripping with honey. “You have clearly consumed far more alcohol than is good for you. You’ve gone and upset poor Bernie. You really give me no choice.”

She tugged as though to drag him from the room. By his ear.

“Shit, Hilda, let go!” he shouted.

Hilda paused and looked down at Sylvain, her lips pursed thoughtfully. Sylvain grabbed her wrist with both hands, begging her with his eyes to let him go. He had always been rather good at the puppy-dog look, after all. Surely she wasn’t immune to its charms.

With a sigh, Hilda released him. Sylvain cupped a hand over his ear, breathing a small ouch as Hilda brushed her hands together like they were dirty.

And then Sylvain saw his father. He gulped. The Margrave’s fury was barely contained by his expression and, for the first time in Sylvain’s life, it was directed at him.

**III: The King’s Private Study, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)**

Dimitri’s hand shook as he lit the candle on his desk. The flame danced on the end of the match in counterpoint. Once the candle’s wick caught, he shook the match to extinguish it and sat down.

With a curse, Dimitri pulled off his circlet and eye patch in one go. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his hands. He felt sick. Was it these endless disasters that were making him queasy, or something else?

Despite his earlier resolution, Dimitri wished on every star, prayed to all the saints, that Byleth would somehow appear beside him. Then he would be permitted to throw himself in her arms and confess the storm of emotions currently twisting through him. Or rather, just hide there, because Byleth would simply understand.

But that could never happen, and so Dimitri was left to sort through them alone.

After Hilda’s intervention, Sylvain had left the room quietly, trailing after the Margrave, who had somehow summoned him without words. Felix had turned to Bernadetta and inquired after her health with more courtesy than usual.

Dimitri had remained frozen until Hilda stepped up and patted him on the arm.

“Dimitri?” she had said. “Are you all right?”

He was not all right, but was unable to say so. Instead Dimitri had smiled at her and shook his head; summoned a lord or suitor or someone to lead Hilda back to the dancefloor; crossed to Bernadetta and issued an apology before offering some cake; dropped a light, grateful touch to Felix’s shoulder; and left the refreshment room with the grace and bearing of a man in control.

Before fleeing to his study.

The worst part of it all was that Dimitri knew he must go back. His guests were still gathered below, no doubt dissecting the unexpected entertainment. Probably, considering his current absence, not even quietly. And he wasn’t fool enough to think that they would stop when he re-entered the room. They would only lower their discussions to whispers.

Dimitri dropped his arms to the desk and stared at the candle. He had known for some time that Sylvain was still mourning for Ingrid. But until a few minutes ago, he had not realised how much. He knew his friend, and his friend responded to pain with humour, a laugh, a joke. Tonight, he had reacted with cruelty, anger, and scorn. Sylvain was broken. Dimitri had broken him.

The revelation was distressing and too much to pile on top of his existing sins.

Felix was right. Sylvain would have to go to Garreg Mach. There was only one person in this world capable of pulling a person back from the brink of destruction.

As though his thoughts had summoned them, there was short knock on the door before it opened to reveal the Margrave Gautier and Sylvain. Dimitri stood, watching in silence as they entered the office.

“Your Majesty,” the Margrave said with a slight bow.

“Margrave…Sylvain,” Dimitri said, turning his eye to Sylvain.

His stomach lurched as he spotted a bright red mark on Sylvain’s cheek. Over the years, Dimitri had heard stories about the relationship between Sylvain’s brother and father. He had believed Sylvain's accounts with the devotion of a friend, but had nonetheless always found it hard to imagine anything like that of the Margrave. Until now.

Sylvain stepped into the centre of the office and dropped to both knees. His guilt multiplying, Dimitri stumbled around the desk.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing Sylvain’s arm to try and pull him up.

Sylvain pulled his arm free, staring at the floor as he spoke.

“Forgive me.” His voice was completely lifeless. “I have broken my vow of fealty and brought shame upon myself.”

Dimitri glanced up at the Margrave. A shiver ran up his spine at the hard look in his eyes. And his blood chilled with the humiliation of the situation. At having his friend kneel before him, like a child being punished.

“Get up,” Dimitri ordered, grabbing Sylvain’s arm again.

This time Sylvain didn’t resist. Dimitri placed his hands on Sylvain’s shoulders and tried to look him in the eye. Sylvain averted his gaze.

“Never do this again,” Dimitri said. “I won’t allow you to grovel before me like a bond servant.”

Sylvain finally stopped avoiding Dimitri and faced him. Dimitri lifted his hands away as if burned, the hatred in his friend’s expression like a physical blow.

“Why are you like this?” Dimitri asked, the question falling from his mouth before he could stop it.

“You know why,” Sylvain replied.

And Dimitri did. He crossed his arms against the sudden cold he felt and turned his back on Sylvain.

“I’m sending you to Garreg Mach,” he said, unable to face Sylvain as he issued the order. Because now he was treating him exactly as a bond servant.

“Why the hell…”

The Margrave cleared his throat. Sylvain adjusted his words.

“What task do you have for me there, Your Majesty?”

“I will send the details after you,” Dimitri said. “You leave at dawn.”

“As my lord commands.”

Dimitri bit his tongue to hold in the words he wanted to say. He knew Sylvain did not want to hear apologies.

Heavy footsteps left the room, but only one pair. Dimitri hesitantly turned back to discover Margrave performing a deep bow.

“Forgive him, Your Majesty,” he said. “It was a moment of passion, born of overindulgence.”

Dimitri frowned, not caring about the Margrave’s dramatics.

“Did you…”

He stopped as the Margrave looked at him questioningly. Dimitri sighed and waved a hand, dismissing him.

“Of course he is forgiven,” Dimitri said. “Please go and enjoy the celebrations.”

The Margrave nodded his head and left.

Another knock came the moment Dimitri retook his seat. He looked up to see Felix and Dedue standing in the doorway, as far apart from each other as the opening would allow.

“Boar king?”

Dimitri sighed and stood. He grabbed his eye patch and tugged it into place.

“I know, I need to get back,” he said.

“It’s not that. In fact, we can probably finish the night here,” Felix said with a sour look. “I don’t think anyone is going to remember anything else now.”

Dimitri forced a laugh even as he shook his head.

“Let’s salvage what we can,’ he said, attempting to put the circlet back in place. Try as he might, it wouldn’t sit correctly.

Dedue stepped neatly forward and relieved Dimitri of the burden.

“Allow me, Dimitri,” he said.

Dimitri dropped his arms to his sides and let Dedue attend to the circlet as though he was a child. Goddess, they were all being reduced to children tonight.

“All done,” Dedue announced, stepping back.

Dimitri glanced at each of his friends. He was grateful that, at least, he still had them beside him.

“Thank you,” he said, knowing that he could never really express the depth of what he felt with those words. But Felix and Dedue, each with a curt nod, accepted the little he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Between part 2 of Outsiders and my Nanowrimo project, it got a little delayed.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments and the kudos this fic has received lately! It really means a lot to see that people are enjoying the story.


	12. For the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain has an unpleasant encounter with his father before leaving for Garreg Mach. As Dimitri tries to enact change in Fódlan, news of the attack on Garreg Mach arrives in Fhirdiad. Felix decides to support Dimitri against his better judgement.

**I: Stables, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad) | Founding Day  
Dawn **

By the time the appointed hour of his departure arrived, Sylvain was sober enough to believe he could manage the ride to Garreg Mach without shaming himself. But when he arrived in the stable yard, a carriage was waiting for him instead of a horse. Along with the Margrave.

Sylvain cursed and drove his footsteps in a wide circle around the Margrave, towards the carriage door. He could not bear facing him. In the last few hours, all notions of “father” had vanished from his understanding of the world. A father did not strike his adult son across the face before immediately parading him in front of the king and forcing him to apologise on his knees.

Even after five hours’ reflection, Sylvain could not decide what was more humiliating: being struck or having Dimitri know about it.

Regardless, Sylvain’s banishment was for the best. At Garreg Mach he would not have to endure the company of all the people he hated most in the world.

“Sylvain,” the Margrave said, stepping into Sylvain’s path. “Sylvain, listen to me.”

Sylvain pushed past the Margrave and threw the bag he had packed onto the seat of the carriage. He mounted the step, grabbing the handle inside the carriage to pull himself up. But before he could enter and close the door, the Margrave seized Sylvain’s wrist and yanked him back down to the ground.

Sylvain wretched his arm free and spun to face the Margrave.

“You have no right,” he hissed. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

The Margrave did not look concerned by Sylvain’s anger. There was a time when such an outburst would have elicited some reaction, a fatherly frown or a sigh. But this time, there was nothing.

“This is for your own good,” the Margrave said. “Your behaviour has to change. How can you take on the title and govern the lands of Gautier when you are bent on self-destruction?”

“I don’t want the title. I never did. It belonged to Miklan.”

“Miklan was a weak fool. You are not. You are better than this, better than him.”

Sylvain threw his hands into the air.

“You created Miklan!” he cried. “All your talk about bloody Crests. He couldn’t change the fact that he was born without one. Just like I, no matter how hard I try, can’t change that the fact I was.”

Sylvain turned towards the carriage. The Margrave was faster. He slammed the door shut using his cane and placed himself between it and Sylvain.

“Thank the goddess for that,” he said, resting both hands on the top of the cane. “Crests do matter, son. You cannot lead people without their power. Without a Crest, how do you plan on inspiring trust?”

“Maybe by being a decent human being?”

The Margrave smirked. “And is that what you are? A decent human being?”

Sylvain despised the Margrave for pointing out the truth. He knew he was one of the lowest of the low. He was pathetic, feeble, and without principle. But it was too late to change. He had to continue down the road he had carved for himself, the one that allowed him to escape the all-consuming darkness that had pursued him since Ingrid’s death. If he didn’t run, it would catch him. He couldn’t face the consequences of that.

“It’s time to grow up,” the Margrave said against Sylvain’s silence. “Going to Garreg Mach will be good for you. Take some time to think and rest. Get this ridiculous rebellion out of your system. Then find yourself a wife.”

Sylvain felt the blood drain from his face. “A wife?” he stammered.

“You are twenty-six years old. It is time to assume your responsibilities.”

“I will not get married.”

“Don’t be a fool. You must find a woman worthy to carry the next Gautier heir. And Garreg Mach is the perfect place to start your search.”

Dread settled in Sylvain’s stomach like a lead weight.

“You have someone in mind,” he guessed.

The Margrave leaned forward. “Garreg Mach is home to the woman bearing the rarest Crest known to us. Imagine what it would mean if the children of House Gautier carried the Crest of Flames.”

Sylvain thought he would actually be sick all over the Margrave’s boots. Whether it was the alcohol or something else entirely, he couldn’t be certain.

“You can’t mean Byleth,” he said as he fought the impulse. “You wouldn’t be so stupid.”

“The archbishop…”

“You know about her and Dimitri,” Sylvain interrupted.

For once the Margrave shut his mouth. He could not deny knowledge of Byleth and Dimitri’s short engagement. After all, he was the one who had told Sylvain. At the time, Sylvain had been too consumed with grief to question the Margrave’s detailed explanation of why the couple couldn’t marry. Now the reasoning behind it was all too obvious.

“You’re a fool if you think their feelings have changed,” Sylvain persisted. “You know how mule-headed Dimitri is. How loyal Byleth…”

“There is no hope for them,” the Margrave said. “Nothing can ever come of it. Besides, feelings often change when a better option presents itself.”

Sylvain spat on the ground. “How thrilling, to be an option.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I’m only quoting you.”

“Byleth is powerful, attractive, and quiet. What more do you want from a wife?”

“Perhaps love? If you think I could ever…”

The Margrave moved his hand. Goddess help him, but Sylvain flinched. Heat rushed to his face when the Margrave simply lifted a finger to point at him.

“Do not mention that woman,” he snarled. “It is time someone forced you to accept the truth.”

Sylvain tried once more to escape to the carriage, but the Margrave dropped his cane, grabbed both Sylvain’s arms and pinned them to his sides.

“Ingrid is dead, Sylvain,” the Margrave pronounced carefully. His gaze was hard and resolute. “She is dead. Completely incapable of giving a damn about you or your actions. Besides which, how can you pretend you are faithful to her? How many women is it now? How many times have you gambled the future of your own House to satisfy your vile carnal appetites?”

His mind blank with shock and humiliation, Sylvain attempted to twist free. The Margrave shoved him backwards before letting him go.

“If Ingrid could see what you have become, she would regret every single moment she wasted on you.”

For a long moment, Sylvain just stood there and stared at the Margrave. At his father. He felt completely hollow. Empty. There was nothing left.

“You know,” he said slowly, pulling himself together, “I questioned, for a long time, whether you were really the person I knew you as. I was so confused by who you were around Miklan. Eventually, I convinced myself that Miklan’s father was made up, a lie. But I was wrong. My father was the imaginary one.”

Sylvain shoved his shoulder against the Margrave to push past him. The Margrave stepped back, his face impassive.

“I have never faked my love for you,” he said. “You have always been my greatest pride.”

“Then I pity you,” Sylvain snapped. “Or I would, if I could feel anything at all.”

“Stop being dramatic. You will see sense, Sylvain. Simply do as I say, settle down, and take your place as Gautier’s heir and the bearer of his Crest.”

The familiar frustration at trying to make the Margrave understand, to see him as a person rather than the walking embodiment of a Crest, burned through Sylvain. And with disgust he realised that he had lied through his teeth. He did still feel.

Run.

“You know what?” Sylvain said, spinning back to the Margrave. “I really don’t want it. I relinquish all rights to the Gautier title and territory. You can shove it.”

The Margrave laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You do not. I know you, Sylvain. I raised you. I know your vanity, your laziness, your desire for all the things that come with wealth and position. You wouldn’t survive a week without the luxuries afforded by the Gautier name.”

Sylvain’s hand itched for the Lance of Ruin. He had never, unlike some of his peers, been one to daydream about patricide. But suddenly it seemed horribly attractive.

Except that Sylvain knew he could never strike his father. And the Lance was just a symbol of how tied he truly was to his family and heritage. He hated it. Hated him. Hated them.

Sylvain yanked the carriage door open and scrambled inside. Slamming the door shut before the Margrave could say anything else, he banged on the carriage roof so hard his knuckles hurt.

It was only once the carriage started moving that Sylvain released the breath he was holding. Leaning forward and resting his head in his hands, he despaired. He knew the Margrave was right. Sylvain had lived his whole life in the lap of privilege. He did not know the first thing about living without it. Worse, he didn’t want to.

He hated himself.

**II: Council Room, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Noon**

There was a pleasant sort of atmosphere in the council room. It allowed Dimitri to give way to hope. Several of the Adrestian nobles were interacting peaceably with their counterparts from Faerghus and Leicester. Although Dimitri could not believe that they would ever be friends, the sight made him think he could at least expect tolerance.

Moreover, the morning’s session had been successful. Progress had been made on plans to complete repairs at Garreg Mach. They had agreed to form a committee to oversee testing of new farming methods to improve crop yield. There had even been a unanimous vote to dismantle the wall that existed along some of the border between Leicester and Adrestia.

Dimitri could hope for further cooperation. He had to. With a quick prayer, he stepped up onto the dais at the head of the council table and sat down on the throne. He nodded to the Master of Ceremonies.

The Master of Ceremonies struck the floor three times with his staff, signalling the return to the table. The lords and ladies present drifted back to their seats as Dimitri watched. Some of them were smiling. That was something. Although the Margrave Gautier wore a deep frown, his eyes focused on something absent. Dimitri could only guess his distraction was due to Sylvain’s departure.

When the shuffling and whispering of all twenty-one heads of the noble houses had ceased, Dimitri rose again in order to address them.

“We must turn our attention to the administration of tenant farms,” he said. “You are all aware of the struggles Fódlan has faced since the end of the war. Our wealth is not what it was. All across the land, farms lie abandoned as people impoverished by low pay, insufficient labour and multiple taxes seek better wages in the city.

“Our cities have long depended on the crops produced by farms throughout Leicester, Adrestia, and southern Faerghus. We must find a way to help farmers there remain on their land. I therefore wish to present a solution to this council for consideration. I have already consulted with a number of the houses present, and have received their suggestions and support.”

Dimitri paused. Details of the plan had been sent to all houses, but he had only spoken directly to those with large tracts of farmland (hence Rowe’s regrettable inclusion) and those who wielded strong influence over other houses. Time, distance, and practicality had not permitted anything more. But unfortunately, it was common for nobility to feel a particular type of ire at being excluded from consultations. So an objection at this juncture would not be surprising.

Mercifully, if there was a disgruntled noble in the room, they remained silent. Dimitri lifted his chin. He thought of his father and the way he spoke without hesitation or uncertainty.

“I propose that we relax aspects of the tenant laws to provide farmers with a reprieve,” he said. “Specifically, I suggest we reduce farming taxes, and offer five year leases instead of two. This would generate more profit for the farmers themselves and provide the security needed to encourage people to return to their holdings.”

If there was one thing a person should never suggest to a room of people who lived off the profit of feudal taxes, it was a lowering of said taxes. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, Dimitri took a step backwards to indicate the topic was open for discussion. There were only murmurs at first, but eventually someone would feel the need to loudly voice their opinion.

That person was Ervin Bergliez. He pressed his hands against the table top and pushed himself up. His chair scraped across the stone floor. Leaning forward over his hands, Bergliez looked right and left at his neighbours, before settling his gaze on Dimitri.

“How will cutting the income of noble houses help the situation?” he demanded. “If we lower taxes, the country’s coffers will begin to haemorrhage. We will be worse off than we are now.”

“The decrease in the number of occupied farms has already reduced income dramatically,” Dimitri replied. “If we decrease the tax on yield and occupancy, and abolish the one on tools, it will become cheaper to work the land than maintain a life in the city. People will return to their farms. Over time, I am certain the income of noble houses will recover.”

“It will not bring it back to the level it was before the war,” Bergliez said.

Dimitri opened his mouth, but paused when Felix lowered the hand he had been resting against his temple.

“We are not promising a return to pre-war wealth,” Felix said.

Even though he remained seated, all eyes turned from Bergliez to Felix. Dimitri couldn’t help but admire his friend for so quickly taking command of the room. He knew that Felix was surprised by the ease with which he had taken to government proceedings. At the beginning, Dimitri had been too. In ballrooms and at social gatherings, Felix remained the awkward, grumpy person everyone knew; but when it came to law, governance, and economics, he was a natural. Less than a month of Dimitri’s reign had passed before he decided that there was more of Rodrigue in Felix than anyone had realised. Although, he would never dare voice that to Felix himself.

“It would be unrealistic and, frankly, foolish of us to even suggest such a thing was possible,” Felix elaborated. He fixed a piercing stare on Bergliez. “Five years of war, of trampling the land, of death, have altered the very soul of Fódlan. We cannot continue on as we always have. His Majesty’s suggestion is, in my view, the best way to accelerate the nation’s recovery.”

“We have achieved many things in the past year,” Dimitri added, seizing on the silence in the room to continue the campaign. “But we are far from being out of danger. If we allow famine to strike because we did not take action when we had the chance, we will be guilty of causing a disaster. This is a small step to safeguard the future.”

“And what future would that be?” Viscount Lucas said.

Bergliez was seated as Lucas stood. He stared directly at Dimitri, offering no respect to him as king. Dimitri folded his arms and stared back.

“Do you speak of the future of Fódlan or of Faerghus?” Lucas asked.

There was a hum of ascent among the Adrestian nobles. All except Varley, who leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table.

“They are one and the same,” Dimitri said.

“Of course,” Lucas concurred. “But although we are united under the crown and with common purpose, the fact remains that the majority of the war was fought on Adrestian land. We Adrestian nobles face challenges, often expensive ones, that are not encountered in Faerghus or Leicester. I only ask that Your Majesty does not forget that.”

Dimitri bit back his retort. The new crop of Adrestian nobles liked to pretend the last months of the war were the only ones that had occurred. As though Edelgard’s army had not nearly flattened Derdriu and the Alliance, or destroyed a decent portion of Faerghus’s already limited farmland. But he could not point that out in the present situation.

“I swore a duty to all of Fódlan’s inhabitants regardless of heritage, culture, or tradition,” Dimitri said. “I assure you, I seek the wellbeing of all territories that form part of this nation.”

“Surely there is a simpler solution to all this.”

The latest contribution to the debate came from Acheron, a previously minor noble of the Leicester Alliance who had benefitted from the collapse of House Gloucester. Dimitri disliked him immensely. Mostly because he had betrayed Claude and fought with the Empire at the Great Bridge of Myrddin, before quickly recanting when Byleth secured victory. But also because of the glee with which he had acquired the southern half of Gloucester territory. Seeing someone take such pleasure in another’s misfortune made Dimitri sick.

Acheron made a great show of checking that everyone was paying attention to him before regarding Dimitri with a supercilious look.

“Is it not the king’s responsibility to ensure the resilience of noble houses? After all, we pay fealty to the crown. When the nation goes to war, do we not provide men? Do we not enforce law and provide goods for trade? I believe that it is the duty of the king to repay his subjects by providing the money they require to secure their territories and their labourers.”

Acheron had quoted a solution that had been used in the former Empire with appalling results. Most nobles had used the money provided by the emperor to subsidise the leasing price of farmland while raising rates on tools and seed. The measure had only increased the private wealth of the houses involved.

Another thing that Dimitri could not mention.

“As this council is aware, royal funds are currently being directed towards rebuilding our great cities. We are restoring the spiritual heart of our land at Garreg Mach. Besides this, we owe substantial debts to Morfis and Brigid. The treasury cannot be stretched further at this time without increasing taxation on noble houses.”

Acheron scowled. “Then perhaps the crown should consider ceasing its favour of certain houses over others,” he bit off, his eyes drifting towards Felix.

Goddess, the man wasn’t only a pompous ass, but one with a death wish. Felix blew out a breath, his right hand disappearing below the table as though to reach for his sword. Thank heavens weapons were not permitted in the council room.

“If it will ease your doubts,” Dimitri said quickly, before Felix could make up for his lack of a blade with words, “you may review the treasury accounts. You will see that no noble house has received favour.”

“I am sure no one present would question Your Majesty’s honesty,” Holst Goneril pronounced.

The duke cast a nonchalant eye towards Acheron as he spoke. As an Alliance noble, Acheron was unable to withstand the clear warning from his superior and sank back down to his chair.

Holst stood up. Glad of his entry into the conversation, Dimitri again stepped back.

“I can speak to the success of His Majesty’s proposal,” Holst said. As he spoke, he made eye contact with each individual around the table. The easy confidence he had developed through years of leadership as a military commander, and during recent months as duke after his father’s death, blanketed the room. “I was permitted to review the proposal over a month ago. Seeing its merits, I applied the principle of it within my own territory.”

“You unlawfully lowered taxes in Goneril?” Lucas interjected.

Holst shot him a disdainful and withering look.

“I applied the principle,” he repeated carefully. “I offered repayments on farming tools and gifts of seed using my house’s private funds to make up the difference between the tax rate and the proposal. Within days, tenants who had spoken of leaving happily returned to working the land. It only took a few weeks for the first of my former tenants to return.”

Holst continued, but Dimitri’s attention was drawn away as a side door of the chamber opened. A messenger appeared bearing a tray with a single letter.

Messengers were never an unusual sight in the castle, even during government meetings. But Dimitri had sent no notes requiring a response. Anyone from whom he would have expected to receive a message was sitting in the council room with him. So rather than gesture for the girl to wait, Dimitri caught Felix’s attention and nodded towards her. Felix raised a hand to acknowledge the request.

Confident that Felix would fill him in on any details he missed, Dimitri waved the girl forward. She stopped at the base of the dais and held up the tray so he could reach the letter. As expected, when Dimitri glanced at the address he could not identify the handwriting.

“…if taxes are lowered how are we to repair farmhouses…”

The shrill voice broke through Dimitri’s concentration. He looked up to see Gabriela, the head of the Adrestian House Brion, gesticulating wildly as she spoke. Dimitri shook his head as he broke the seal on the letter and shook it open to the first page.

> Your Majesty,
> 
> Last night Garreg Mach was attacked. By who I cannot say with certainty; the knights are investigating. However, the attack was well-organised and the culprits dangerous. Eleven people were killed and several more injured. The archbishop is among the latter and remains unconscious, although she is being well cared for by Marianne and Manuela.
> 
> Please do not panic.
> 
> Forgive me for the delay in informing you. Much of the night was spent managing the aftermath. Attached is a report from Alois and Shamir, who both witnessed and were engaged in the fight. This should reach you by noon, so I will expect your instructions by midnight.
> 
> Seteth

The voices in the room faded away. All Dimitri could hear was his heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears.

Garreg Mach. Attacked.

Eleven dead.

Byleth, unconscious.

_Dear Goddess, no,_ Dimitri prayed. _You cannot be this cruel. You cannot do this to me now._

It was a long time before Dimitri noticed the debate had ceased. When he did, he looked up and saw everyone watching him curiously. Felix stood, taking two steps towards the dais before apparently remembering the etiquette of the council room and freezing in place.

Seteth had told Dimitri not to panic. Seteth was right.

“My lords and ladies,” Dimitri said, and he was surprised at how composed he sounded, “I regret that we must postpone this discussion to another time. There has been an attack on Garreg Mach from unknown quarters.”

The Margrave and Holst both swung to their feet. Varley sat straight in his chair, while various other nobles gasped or raised their hand to their mouth in surprise.

“None of the culprits have been apprehended,” Dimitri said, referring to the letter as though it would magically provide him with more information. “I must confer with the war council and the knights immediately. The archbishop has requested a response.”

His voice trembled slightly on Byleth’s title, hinting at the lie. But it seemed important to keep Byleth’s unspecified injury (What if it was fatal? What if she never woke up?) a secret. Because suddenly, any one of the people standing before Dimitri could be an enemy.

**III: The King’s Private Study, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Mid-afternoon **

Felix was pacing. He knew the other occupants of the king’s study–Dedue, Gilbert, and Holst–were watching his every step. But he didn’t stop. It would be their own fault if they grew dizzy.

After conferring with the war council and knights, Dimitri had quietly asked Felix to gather the other three men and go to his private study. The request for Holst’s presence had surprised Felix, since such a gathering usually included the Margrave instead. But he had carried out the request anyway, expecting Dimitri to be present when they arrived.

They had been waiting for a half hour and Dimitri was still not there. So Felix paced. Physical movement had always helped clear his mind. Right now, that was what was needed.

Because Felix knew Dimitri. Dimitri knew war. He did not baulk at news of attacks, take fright at threats. But while reading the letter from Garreg Mach, he had turned as white as new snow.

Felix, knowing Dimitri, knew that could mean only one thing.

The study door opened. Felix strode towards Dimitri as Gilbert and Dedue fell into bows, and Holst gave a nod of respect.

“What happened to Byleth?” Felix demanded, stopping directly in front of Dimitri.

Dimitri responded by handing Felix the letter he had refused to relinquish throughout the entire meeting with the war council. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk in the manner of a much older man. Dedue and Gilbert both feinted towards him, as though wanting to help, but stopped when Dimitri lowered his head to his hands with a sigh.

Felix looked at the letter. He sighed in annoyance and brought it closer to his eyes. The first three pages were written in Shamir’s precise but tiny hand.

When he found the information he sought, Felix felt a chill.

“The archbishop was struck by a strong casting of dark magic while defending Flayn,” Felix read aloud. “She was knocked unconscious and had to be carried to her rooms.”

Gilbert turned pale and began to mutter a prayer. Dedue frowned. Holst, the only person present who knew Byleth so little that he would feel nothing more than passing concern for her, tapped his foot.

“It was an assassination attempt?” Holst asked, glancing at Dimitri.

Dimitri did not lift his head. His voice was muffled by his hands as he answered.

“From the report, yes. But the culprit remains unknown.”

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, forgive me, but if it was an assassination attempt, we must consider your safety.”

Felix sat down on the arm of one of the chairs facing Dimitri’s desk and flipped to Seteth’s note.

“Gilbert has a point,” he said. “If someone is trying to kill Byleth, they may be after you too.”

“That is nothing.”

Holst made a small noise of disbelief, causing Felix to wonder once again why he was there. Holst was not familiar with most of the complexities pertaining to the king’s personality and past. At least the Margrave had the advantage of having watched Dimitri grow up.

Meanwhile, Gilbert began to gnaw at the bone.

“Your Majesty, back then…” he said.

“Assassination attempts are not why I asked you all here,” Dimitri interrupted.

Gilbert fell silent. But instead of explaining himself, Dimitri paused and looked down at his hands. Gathering his thoughts. Felix lowered the letter, the worries of the previous half-hour returning.

“Of all the people around me, I trust your advice the most,” Dimitri said finally, looking at them each in turn. “So I need to ask you this question. My people have been attacked. Would it be appropriate for me to go to Garreg Mach?”

Sometimes Felix hated being right.

Holst shrugged, while a proud half-smile appeared on Gilbert’s face. Felix looked at Dedue. The king’s retainer looked at him at the same moment. The two of them had their differences, but they both understood Dimitri. They knew the real reason behind the question, the motive Holst and Gilbert could not even imagine. Clearly, Dedue was as uncertain of the wisdom of allowing Dimitri to go to Garreg Mach as Felix was.

“It would certainly be seen as a generous and regal gesture,” Gilbert said.

“People from all three territories were in attendance,” Holst offered. “It may strengthen your position as king.”

Dimitri turned his eye to Dedue. The man from Duscur bowed.

“I will accompany you, Sire.”

Finally, Dimitri focused on Felix with a hopeful expression. Unable to voice his advice as a friend in the face of that, let alone with the others present, Felix decided to go with his advice as Duke Fraldarius.

“Tell Seteth you’re on your way,” he said, folding the letter sharply. “I’ll hold the fort here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter to make up for the lack of updates this month!
> 
> Thank you so much for the encouraging comments on the last chapter. It has been a busy writing month for me and that meant I had to put this fic aside for longer than intended. Fortunately, for me the break resulted in more good than bad. Apart from successfully completing Nanowrimo for the first time (yay!), after starting work on this chapter I discovered my ideas were flowing more freely. I have been drafting a lot more angst-filled, fluffy and dramatic goodness for all our Blue Lions. I hope you continue to enjoy the ride!


	13. Questions without Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth wakes from an impossible dream to an unexpected visitor.

**I: Garreg Mach Monastery  
Mid-morning **

Byleth was standing in the courtyard above the cemetery. The sky was a stunning shade of blue with only a few, pure white clouds decorating it. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the sun, revelling in its warmth on her face. It had been cloudy for so long.

When she opened her eyes, Byleth discovered she was no longer alone. A woman in cleric’s robes was standing near the stairs leading down to the cemetery. Her back was to Byleth as she propped herself against the short stone wall surrounding the courtyard.

Approaching footsteps, accompanied by the clinking of armour and weapons, compelled Byleth to turn away from the woman. When she saw the new arrival, her chest tightened in pain.

Jeralt, wearing the uniform of the Knights of Seiros, was walking towards Byleth. He looked exactly the same as he always had, save that the scar above his left eyebrow was missing. His eyes softened as he saw her. A smile grew across his face.

But her father walked past her. He was close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed her arm, but Jeralt didn’t notice. He couldn’t see her.

Then Byleth realised he was not smiling at her.

Jeralt crept up behind the woman standing by the wall. He slipped his arms around her waist. The woman giggled and lifted a hand to caress Jeralt’s cheek as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Were you trying to sneak up on me?’ she asked.

“I learned a long time ago not to try tricks with you,” Jeralt replied gruffly. He squeezed the woman tight. “Damn, I missed you while I was away.”

The woman turned in Jeralt’s arms. Byleth’s breath caught. She had large, almond shaped blue eyes, a small nose, and delicate cheekbones that curved down into a pointed chin. Her lips were fuller than Byleth’s, and her ears smaller, but Byleth knew she had inherited those features from her father.

Byleth began to panic. She couldn’t be here. This was impossible. How could she be witnessing this?

“Even if you did away with the armour and weapons,” the woman teased, her hand resting against Jeralt’s breastplate, “I think you’d still struggle to surprise me. You’re noisier than a flock of wyverns.”

“Is that so?” Jeralt said, leaning towards her. “Well, perhaps we should find somewhere we can do away with them now, and then…”

Byleth spun away and blocked her ears. Goddess. She did not want to witness this.

The cathedral rose up before her. Bells signalled the approach of mass. Deciding that was a safer place to be at this particular moment, Byleth walked towards it.

But when she drew close to the edge of the courtyard, Byleth found herself back where she had started. With a frown, she tried again. Once more, she was transported back, just as she thought she was making progress.

Byleth couldn’t leave. Her mind began to race as she repeated her attempt over and over. It was like being caught in an endless loop of the Divine Pulse, even though she had not accessed the power. Was it backfiring? Had Sothis neglected to explain something to her? Would she be trapped in this single moment for the rest of time?

Someone cleared their throat, interrupting Byleth’s panic. She glanced over her shoulder to find Rhea standing there, dressed in the full accoutrements of the archbishop.

Jeralt had heard the sound too. He turned his head, and, upon seeing who it was, reluctantly stepped away from Byleth’s mother. He did not break contact completely, however. His hand slid down Byleth’s mother’s arm until he finally clasped her hand. Byleth’s mother turned bright red as she averted her eyes from the archbishop’s glower.

“This is not appropriate behaviour for this setting,” Rhea said.

“Forgive us, Rhea,” Byleth’s mother replied.

Rhea was silent, her stare fixed on the couple’s intertwined fingers. Byleth’s mother took fright and tugged her hand, with a little difficulty, from Jeralt’s grip.

“I am still struggling with the knowledge of this,” Rhea said. “I cannot rest easy. You know how much I care for both of you, but Jeralt…” Rhea settled her piercing eyes on Byleth’s father. “Sitri is so…”

Byleth hiccupped. She had not been prepared to learn her mother’s name. She mouthed it, savouring its existence. Her mother was real. She was not the vague figure who must have existed because Byleth did. She had a name.

“Don’t talk about her like she isn’t here,” Jeralt said harshly, cutting across Rhea’s words.

Sitri looked up at Jeralt with a love so pure it made Byleth’s heart ache. It was so innocent, so perfect. Byleth had known, particularly through what Jeralt had told her in his last year of life, that her parents had been very much in love. But knowing it was completely different from seeing it with her own eyes.

Rhea sighed as she clasped her hands in front of her.

“Sitri, I have great confidence in you,” she said. “I do not doubt the honesty of your feelings. But you must consider that you know so very little of the world. You have led such a sheltered life.”

“You are my greatest friend,” Sitri said, crossing to Rhea and taking the archbishop’s hands between hers. “I deeply value your advice. But Jeralt…”

Sitri paused and gazed back at Jeralt. He stood waiting with the ease of a soldier, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Sitri smiled tenderly.

“Jeralt is perfect. He is mine and I love him more than anyone else in the whole world.”

Jeralt grunted and looked away in embarrassment. Byleth giggled, affection for her emotionally awkward father flooding her heart. She missed him so much.

The moment was broken by Rhea’s sharp gasp. The archbishop pulled her hands from Sitri’s, but only to grasp them tightly in turn. Rhea studied Sitri’s hands for a long moment, before lifting panicked eyes to her face.

“Rhea?” came Jeralt’s voice, his concern audible. “What’s wrong?”

“No,” Rhea murmured.

Sitri’s cheeks flushed pink.

Rhea snapped her stare to Jeralt, who took a step backwards under the force of the anger and worry in it.

“Do you know?” Rhea demanded.

“Know what?” Jeralt stammered.

Sitri took a step to the right, shielding Jeralt from Rhea.

“No, Rhea, please, I haven’t told him yet,” she begged softly.

All feeling disappeared from Byleth’s legs. She wanted to collapse to the ground, but for some reason she couldn’t do that either.

“Sitri, told me what?” Jeralt asked.

Byleth’s mother hurried over to Jeralt. She grabbed his arm with one hand, the other resting, once again, on his chest.

“Jeralt,” Sitri said gently. “I promise I have only known for a short while myself. I have not been keeping this from you.”

“What is it?”

The force of Jeralt’s question made Sitri wince. But she pressed on, lifting her hand up behind Jeralt’s neck and encouraging him to look into her eyes.

“Jeralt,” she murmured, “you are going to be a father.”

Byleth had never seen her father so stunned. His expression froze, his body so still that for a moment she thought his heart must have stopped.

Sitri shared Byleth’s concern. She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to Jeralt’s lips, as though it would wake him. When it did not, she whispered his name again.

That worked. Jeralt breathed out and clutched Sitri’s shoulders.

“There’s going to be a…a baby?” he choked. “As in a child? Mine? My child?”

Sitri nodded, her expression unsure.

Jeralt laughed and crushed Sitri against him.

“Oh, goddess!” he exclaimed. “Sitri, I… Seiros…”

“Jeralt,” Rhea warned.

“Sorry, I… Sitri, I…”

Jeralt’s words ceased as he kissed Sitri deeply. Byleth looked away again, shocked at her father’s unprecedented display of passion.

Rhea cleared her throat. A long moment later, she followed it with an abrasive, “_Jeralt_.”

Jeralt stopped kissing Sitri, but only to physically relocate her to his side so he could place a possessive arm around her shoulders.

“Rhea, we’re getting married,” he declared proudly.

Sitri clapped her hand to her mouth.

“How about tomorrow?” Jeralt said, his eyes shining with more happiness than Byleth had ever seen him express.

Rhea was unmoved.

“You have not asked your intended bride what her wishes are,” she pointed out.

Jeralt immediately turned and sank to one knee in front of Sitri. She stared at him dumbly, her hand still over her mouth. Jeralt lifted her other one to his lips and reverently kissed it.

“Sitri,” Jeralt said, and the way he pronounced her name left Byleth in no doubt that her father had been besotted, “be my wife.”

Sitri nodded. Jeralt gazed at her in adoration.

Rhea let out a laugh. Byleth watched in shock as her countenance changed. The anger disappeared, replaced by hope.

The archbishop strode over to the couple and drew Sitri into her arms.

“My dear girl,” she said, tightening the embrace as though to emphasise her words, “truly, I am happy for you. I was not certain about this until right now, but this seems to be an honest and earnest union.”

“It is, Rhea,” Sitri said. Byleth could hear tears in her voice.

Jeralt pushed himself up as Rhea released Sitri. The archbishop rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I have so much to thank you for,” she said. “You have always proven yourself worthy of my trust. I am sorry I doubted your love for Sitri.”

“I will take care of her. I promise,” Jeralt replied. “I will devote every moment of my life to her happiness. And to our child.”

Byleth was overwhelmed by the pride in Jeralt’s voice as he referred to her. Even before he had met her, he had loved her. It was hard to bear, knowing he was gone.

Tears welled in Byleth’s eyes. Jeralt was gone. The impossibility of her situation returned to her. She looked around. How had she gotten here? She couldn’t remember.

But, as though her thoughts had opened a window, she heard a new voice. This time, no one appeared to claim it.

“Byleth, you have to wake up.”

Byleth searched for the voice’s owner to no avail. Her eyes stopped on her mother. Sitri. Her face was glowing with the prospect of starting her family.

“By. If you won’t wake up for Flayn or Seteth, then wake up for me. If you go too, I’ll really have no one left. And I can’t bear my own company.”

As though summoned by a spell, Byleth’s body lifted from the ground and floated towards the sky.

**II: The Archbishop’s Quarters (Garreg Mach Monastery) | Red Wolf Moon, Year 1187  
Morning **

The heady smell of incense pressed in on Byleth like a physical weight. She cracked an eye. It was too bright in the room to see clearly, but she was able to make out a distinctive and very familiar mess of red hair.

“Sylvain?” Byleth croaked.

As Byleth grew accustomed to the light and was able to open her eyes fully, Sylvain jolted to his feet. He stared at her with an open mouth.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he whispered. Then, at the top of his lungs, he shouted, “Manuela!”

Byleth flinched at the noise, while Sylvain crossed her bedroom in three strides and threw open the door. Manuela appeared almost immediately. When she saw Byleth, she gasped and ran to the bed.

The songstress-turned-healer began to prod and poke Byleth in a number of different ways: testing her reflexes, looking into her eyes, tugging on her earlobes, and inspecting her ears. Byleth could not comprehend the point of half of what Manuela was doing.

“How do you feel, Your Grace?” Manuela asked as she worked. “Any pain? Any fogginess? Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am? What moon is it?”

Manuela didn’t pause for breath or answers. While Byleth could endure the physical ministrations, the chattering was too much. Her frustration began to boil, drawing closer to a point. Just when she thought she could bear no more, Sylvain, who had been loitering at the foot of the bed, surged forward and stopped Manuela with a firm touch to her arm.

“I think she’s okay,” Sylvain said.

“Hmm? How can you tell?” Manuela squinted at Byleth’s face.

“It’s just something you learn after, you know, fighting a war with her,” Sylvain said.

Manuela harrumphed, apparently offended by Sylvain’s implication that she did not know Byleth as well as he did.

“Well, I am not convinced,” Manuela said. “Your Grace, do you remember what happened?”

Byleth did, and quite clearly. One didn’t forget pain like that in a hurry.

“Is Flayn all right?” she asked.

Sylvain smirked while Manuela rolled her eyes.

“Of course you’d be concerned about everyone else when you’re the one who has been lying unconscious for two days,” Manuela said.

Byleth pushed herself up. She regretted it instantly, with the subsequent rush to her head making her dizzy. Sylvain dropped onto the bed beside her and braced her back with his arm, holding her steady.

“Slow down, By,” he said. “You just woke up.”

“Two days?” Byleth squeaked.

“It’s the twenty-third day of the month,” Manuela confirmed.

“Then I have to get up.”

Manuela held up a forbidding hand. “Don’t you dare move,” she said. “I still don’t know why you wouldn’t wake up. You were hit with a very strong spell, but it shouldn’t have caused you to lose consciousness.”

Byleth frowned. Manuela was right. Dark magic hurt like hell and that was the point. It was useless if it made you pass out.

But the process to figure that out was too intimidating right now. Putting it aside to consider when she felt less befuddled, Byleth turned her head to look at Sylvain.

‘What are you doing here?” she asked.

Sylvain’s jaw twitched.

“Ouch, By,” he said. “Can’t a man pay a friend a visit without her questioning his motives?”

“You can’t,” Byleth replied.

Sylvain laughed. “Touché. It’s a long story,” he shrugged. “Short version is Dimitri sent me.”

“Because of the attack?”

Sylvain shook his head, but didn’t elaborate.

“I think you should stay in bed for a few more days,” Manuela said, filling the silence. “Just to be sure. This isn’t the first time you’ve had an episode like this.”

Byleth knew that staying in bed was simply not going to be possible. She had to talk to Seteth and find out what had happened after the attack. She needed to see Flayn and make sure she was uninjured.

“But I haven’t passed out since before my father…”

Byleth gasped. Tears rushed to her eyes as she remembered her father proposing to her mother. With a dreadful feeling that she was going to be sucked back in time against her will, she grabbed Sylvain’s tunic to anchor herself.

“By?”

Sylvain took her hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around hers, and gently urged her to release his clothing.

“My father,” Byleth rasped.

She felt as though she couldn’t breathe. For years the pain had been numb, but suddenly it felt raw and overwhelming. Her father had been there before her, real, solid, and alive. But now, he was not.

Manuela patted Byleth’s leg. “Calm down, Your Grace,” she said. “You must have had a dream. Do you remember it?”

Byleth knew it had not been a dream. She felt it instinctively: the scene in the courtyard above the cemetery had taken place.

But that was crazy. She could not have seen something that happened before she was born.

“Byleth,” Sylvain said gently. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Byleth tensed as Sylvain wrapped both arms around her. Suddenly close enough to feel his warmth and smell the biting scent of his aftershave, she felt bewildered. Throughout her entire life, she had only been held in this way by two people. Her father, in her younger years when she had woken from nightmares, and Dimitri, on the night they had been forced to end their relationship. The two men she loved most in the world. Both of whom were lost to her.

It was too much to handle. Byleth began to weep. For a long time, all she knew was the dreadful pain that wracked through her body and soul.

When her tears subsided to a faint tremor in her limbs, Sylvain stopped stroking her hair and loosened his hold. Byleth, knowing that she could not remain in the comfort of his arms, inched away. Taking the hint, Sylvain stood up and dragged a chair over to the bed so he could sit there instead.

Byleth wiped her eyes and glanced around the room.

“Where’s Manuela?” she asked.

“I told her to get lost,” Sylvain answered with a grin. “She was flustered and frantic and making a racket.”

“Thank you,” Byleth said. She was relieved she wouldn’t have to endure any more questioning, even though she knew Manuela meant well.

“I’ve never seen you that emotional, By,” Sylvain said. “Even when Jeralt d…”

Sylvain stopped. He clapped his hands together, then offered a wordless apology with a sheepish glance. Byleth shook her head to tell him it wasn’t necessary.

“Are you hungry?” Sylvain asked. “You’ve been asleep for two days. If I were you, I’d be famished.”

Now that he mentioned it, Byleth realised she was ravenous. But she didn’t want to eat in her room. Not with the incense hanging so heavily in the air.

“Maybe you could wait for me to bathe, if you don’t mind?” she asked.

“Of course. But is it safe by yourself? I should check with Marianne. If not, she can help you. Wait for me to come back?”

Byleth nodded and Sylvain darted out the door.

**III: Dining Hall (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Before Noon **

Byleth was certain that food had never tasted so good before. She didn’t pause to speak to either Sylvain or Marianne as she shovelled the Daphnel stew into her mouth. Her friends watched with increasingly amused expressions, letting their own meals grow cold so they didn’t miss the entertainment.

“Well, that settles it,” Sylvain said as Byleth pushed her empty plate away and leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “No one who eats like that can possibly be sick.”

Marianne shook her head cautiously. “Your body has undergone a severe trauma, Your Grace,” she said. “I’m still not certain I should have let you out of bed.”

Byleth smiled at Marianne, mainly because she didn’t want to agree with her. Even though her legs felt like jelly and her head was spinning, she much preferred the cleaner air of the dining hall. Also, it had taken a great deal of prodding and teasing on Sylvain’s part to convince Marianne to let Byleth bathe and come downstairs in the first place. She did not want to throw away all his hard work.

As long as Marianne stuck beside her, as she had promised to do, Byleth could not see that there was anything wrong with her being out of bed.

Byleth glanced around the hall, noting the solemn mood of the few people scattered around them. Many cast worried glances in her direction. No doubt the entire monastery had heard she was bedridden. She had to attend to her duties. If she did not, people would panic.

Just when she was about to stand and go in search of Seteth, Lysithea burst into the dining hall. The mage bounded towards them and threw herself onto the seat beside Byleth with a squeak.

“Professor!” Lysithea exclaimed. She latched her arms around Byleth’s neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Lysithea,” Byleth said, patting her on the back. “Are you?”

Lysithea released her.

“Of course,” she said. “I missed the whole thing. I was in the library. Which was a shame, really, because I would have been able to take a couple of them down.”

Byleth was certain of that, knowing Lysithea’s mastery of magic, but she was nonetheless glad she had been safely hidden away and spared from the fighting.

“Were any of the attackers caught?” Byleth asked, turning her eyes from Lysithea to Marianne. It was a blow when they both shook their heads.

“They vanished into thin air,” Marianne said.

“So we know that at least one of them is a powerful mage,” Lysithea pointed out.

“Could that give us a clue?” Byleth asked.

Lysithea raised a finger to her chin. “Well, it’s clear that they used dark magic,” she said. “So the logical place to start looking is the Imperial School of Magic in Rusalka. That’s where Hubert trained. It’s famous for producing very strong dark mages.”

Byleth wondered if her friends were thinking the same thing as her. If the mysterious assailants were from the Imperial School, it was likely they were Adrestian. And that would be terribly consistent with the discontent that had been growing in the south.

“I need to speak with Seteth,” Byleth announced.

She put her hands on the table, ready to catch herself if her legs decided to shake again in the way they had when she got out of bed. She had needed Marianne’s help to bathe. Sylvain had supported her down the stairs to the dining hall. There was no knowing if she would be able to get up alone now.

With a breath of relief, Byleth discovered she was able to stand without teetering. Nonetheless, Marianne circled the table and offered her arm.

“I will go with you,” she said.

“I won’t,” Lysithea said. “Seteth scolded me earlier for asking about cake. He said it wasn’t an appropriate question in a time of crisis. But I think cake is very helpful in these situations.”

Sylvain cast Lysithea a side-long glance, probably to see if she was serious. Upon discovering she looked absolutely sincere, he shook his head and turned to Byleth.

“Do you mind if I call coward as well?”

Sylvain did not offer an excuse. Byleth decided not to comment, knowing that she would have time later to wheedle out of him the reason he was at Garreg Mach.

Marianne and Byleth left the dining hall and headed upstairs to Seteth’s office. Byleth hoped he was there. The monastery was too large to have to search its entirety for him, especially when her breath was coming a little short.

Luckily, Seteth’s office door was open, revealing that he was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Byleth tapped on the doorframe.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He rushed around his desk, took Byleth’s arm, and led her to a chair. “Manuela told me you were awake, but I didn’t expect to see you out of bed for days.”

“I couldn’t bear the incense,” Byleth admitted. As Seteth began to frown, she quickly added, “I know it is the advice of the healers, but the smell makes it difficult to eat.”

Seteth frowned anyway as he helped Byleth sit down. He took the seat beside her, gesturing for Marianne to take the one opposite.

“How are you feeling? Have any further symptoms been identified?”

The last question was posed with a penetrating look at Marianne.

“I am yet to observe anything troubling, but we will keep a close eye on Her Grace over the next few days,” Marianne answered.

“Seteth,” Byleth said, “I am more worried about the attack.”

Seteth’s expression turned even more serious, which Byleth had not realised was possible.

“On that topic,” he said, “I must express my heartfelt gratitude for your defence of Flayn. If anything had happened to her, I do not know what I would have done.”

Seteth’s scream echoed in Byleth’s head. It had been so long since she had used the Divine Pulse, she had forgotten how vivid the undone past felt in the days after.

“Flayn is important to me too, Seteth,” she said quietly.

Seteth nodded curtly, clearly holding back his emotions.

“I regret to inform you that not everyone was so fortunate,” he said. “There were many casualties. Eleven people were killed.”

Byleth’s heart cracked. “Eleven?”

“We could do little to save them. I offered burials at the monastery to their families. Three took up the offer, and two more are without family. We have commenced funeral rites for them.”

“Thank you,” Byleth said. “I will attend them.”

“In your condition…”

“I will.”

Seteth visibly bit back a reply and continued his report instead. “For the rest we will provide the means for their families to transport them home, as well as a guard from the Knights of Seiros.”

“And the injured?”

“Spread between the town, the monastery hospital, and the infirmary. Some have already recovered and started on their journey home.”

“Seteth.”

Seteth’s eyebrows knit together. He had, unfortunately, learned to recognise when Byleth was going to ask a question that she suspected he would not wish to answer.

“What is it, Your Grace?”

“What are Nabateans?”

Seteth did not miss a beat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nabateans, Your Grace?” he replied.

Byleth did not back down. She knew Seteth was trying to intimidate her, but he had conveniently forgotten that years had passed since she stopped thinking of him as the archbishop’s fearsome and stern aide. His scowl was hardly going to frighten her now.

“I have not heard the word before, but whoever it means, they were clearly the target.” Byleth twisted her fingers together as she reviewed the events of the attack in her mind. “They used the term Fell Star as well, which I know refers to me because of Solon. That also suggests they are connected to him.”

“I cannot provide you with the answers to these questions, Your Grace,” Seteth said. “Forgive me.”

Byleth tilted her head as she considered Seteth. He never displayed any nervous ticks under pressure. Dimitri had pointed that out to her once while expressing admiration for Seteth’s control.

“But Flayn seemed to know the word,” she said.

This time Seteth did react. He cleared his throat and stood up.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “I think it is best for you to return to bed. These conversations will be straining your mind and body.”

“Do you know who they are, Seteth?”

“Seteth!”

Cyril burst into the office, breathing heavily and pointing towards the hallway. When he saw Byleth, he abruptly dropped his arm and stared.

“Your Grace,” he said, “you’re awake!”

“Yes, Cyril, what is it?” Seteth asked, far too eagerly.

“Oh! The royal delegation has arrived in the entrance hall.”

Seteth reached across his desk and grabbed a small leather-bound notebook.

“Your Grace, I suggest you return to your room and get some rest,” he said.

Byleth stood. Her knees trembled.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “If there is a royal delegation here, I must greet them.”

“You are not properly prepared.”

“It isn’t difficult. If they have travelled all the way from Fhirdiad…”

“Your Grace, allow me to take care of it,” Seteth said through clenched teeth. “I have been organising this while you were asleep.”

Byleth frowned, her curiosity piqued by his insistence.

“Seteth, what type of delegation…”

At that moment Dimitri, in a riding cloak that bore the dust of the road, strode into the room.

“Seteth, I couldn’t wait…”

Dimitri trailed off as he saw Byleth. His eye darted back and forth across her face, down her body, and back up, as though searching for something. Then a tiny, hesitant smile ghosted across his lips.

“Byleth,” he said, his voice deep and rich.

That one word seemed to knock the air from her lungs. Byleth wondered how she had forgotten and yet remembered so perfectly what he looked like, how his voice sounded. A deep longing spread like fire through her body. She missed him so damn much. And he was wonderfully, horribly, heartbreaking, right in front of her.

Marianne rushed forward.

“Your Grace?” she stammered. “Are you…”

Byleth’s legs made good on their continuing threat to fail, and the room went black.


	14. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Byleth are reunited.

**I: Seteth’s Office (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Before Noon**

Dimitri swore his heart stopped at the same moment everyone else began to move.

Seteth was the only person close enough to Byleth to prevent her fall. He caught her with a grunt. Marianne shoved a chair aside as she began to give orders.

“Lie her down. Quickly. Cyril, fetch some cushions.”

Cyril snatched two cushions from a chair. Seteth gently lowered Byleth to the ground, cradling her head with one hand to prevent it hitting the floor. Marianne took the cushions from Cyril and piled them one atop the other. As Seteth grabbed a third to put under Byleth’s head, Marianne lifted her feet onto the pile to raise them above the rest of her body.

Dimitri remained frozen by the door.

_Not again,_ he thought. _Please, not again._

The old wound in his back twinged as he saw Rodrigue lying on the ground in Byleth’s place. His father…Dimitri baulked, trying to push that memory away before it could properly form.

Throughout his life, Dimitri had witnessed many terrible things. Pain, death, madness, torture. People burned alive and frozen to death. All he had known for certain on the way to Garreg Mach was that Byleth was unconscious. With so little information, his imagination had filled the gaps with dozens of possible scenes. They had made waiting in the reception hall intolerable. He had needed to know the truth.

When Dimitri had entered Seteth’s office, for a moment he had stupidly let himself hope for something different to his past experiences. Byleth had been standing there, her soothing green eyes as they had always been. Bright and intelligent. Alive.

But nothing had changed. Everyone he loved was ripped away. It was his punishment, the price of everything he had done. The goddess knew how wretched he was even as a child, and she measured out her justice accordingly.

“Your Majesty?”

The ghosts disappeared. As the room came into focus, Dimitri saw Seteth standing directly in front of him. Marianne and Cyril, although still kneeling beside Byleth, were no longer focused on her. They watched Dimitri with concerned expressions.

Dimitri realised he was shaking. Seteth seemed to notice too, glancing down at Dimitri’s hands before saying, “Perhaps it would be best if we leave Marianne and Cyril to…”

“No!”

The word was ripped from Dimitri’s throat. He pushed past Seteth and crashed to his knees beside Byleth, ignoring the pain resulting from falling so heavily onto the floor.

“Your Majesty?” Marianne whispered in fright.

Dimitri brushed Byleth’s hair from her face with one hand as he sought out the pulse at her throat with the other. She could not be dead. He would not allow it.

“She has fainted,” Marianne said.

The words alone were not enough to calm Dimitri. But the tickle of Byleth’s breath against his hand, the solid rhythm under his fingertips, did. Signs of life that had been missing in his father and Rodrigue.

“This is my fault,” Marianne continued. “I should have insisted she stay in bed.”

“Do not blame yourself. Byleth is stubborn,” Seteth said, stepping forward and dropping to a crouch beside Dimitri.

“She would not have gotten up if I had forbid it.”

Dimitri sat back on his heels, his arms falling by his side. He could breathe freely again. He muttered a prayer of thanks to the goddess, keeping the words of self-condemnation in his mind. Speaking them in front of Marianne was ill-advised.

“Better to blame Sylvain,” Seteth said. “He probably put the idea in her head.”

Dimitri jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his head to look at Seteth, his prayer dying mid-phrase.

“Your Majesty?” Seteth asked once again.

Those two words carried several questions. Dimitri did not feel able to answer any of them. He felt enough shame at his irrational reaction to the situation without elaborating on it.

“I am well, Seteth,” he answered, managing to keep his voice from trembling.

Seteth nodded and removed his hand. He returned to his feet, crossing his arms as he looked down at Byleth disapprovingly.

“Cyril,” Marianne said, “could you go to Her Grace’s room and prepare her bed? We will have to move her after she wakes.”

A flurry of footsteps behind Dimitri announced Cyril’s departure. Once the room was quiet, and his heart had slowed, Dimitri allowed himself to look back at Byleth.

Apart from the unusually pallid colour of her skin, there was no indication of the ordeal that Alois and Shamir had described in their report. He could see no bandages. She must have fainted because she was overtired. That was what Marianne had suggested. That was all.

Nonetheless, Dimitri felt an overpowering need for reassurance. Unable to think of any other way to receive it, he took Byleth’s hand. Although her fingers were cold, it was not the chill of death. It was one eased by the warm hand of a friend.

“She should wake soon.”

Dimitri glanced up to see Marianne smiling kindly at him. His lips formed words of thanks, although no sound emerged.

“Is there some way we can help?” Seteth asked.

“I have an elixir that will help her recover strength, but what Her Grace needs most is rest. Neither I nor Manuela are sure why she has reacted this way to the magic.”

Dimitri squeezed Byleth’s hand as her eyelids fluttered. When they finally opened, her eyes were fogged with confusion. She blinked several times.

“Seteth?” Byleth murmured.

Seteth moved so that he was within her line of sight.

“I am here, Your Grace. You fainted.”

“I did? Why…”

Byleth’s gaze fell on Dimitri. She stopped speaking and blinked again, as though clearing her vision.

“Byleth,” Dimitri said. He forced a smile and rubbed his thumb across her palm. “How do you feel?”

She frowned, before pulling her hand from Dimitri’s and lifting it to his face. Her fingers caught on the strap of his eye patch as she traced from his temple to his chin.

“You’re really here,” she whispered.

Dimitri suppressed a shiver. Acutely aware of Seteth’s presence beside him and Marianne’s opposite, he drew Byleth’s hand away from his face.

“I came to pay respects to the dead,” he told her.

Byleth’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

The words were unexpected and painful, particularly after the intimacy of her touch. Cursing himself for a fool, Dimitri released her and looked away. Byleth had given him every indication of the distance she desired between them, and he had torn across the country to be by her side. Idiot.

“They might come back.”

Dimitri’s head snapped back up. Byleth did not look angry, merely frustrated.

“Who?” he asked, confused.

“The mages.” Byleth turned pleading eyes on Seteth. “Please tell me you didn’t call him here? It is too dangerous. You must let him return to Fhirdiad.”

“I assure you, His Majesty’s journey to Garreg Mach was the decision of the government in Faerghus. I merely requested he send his instructions on how we should respond to the attack.”

Byleth tried to sit up, only to have Marianne push her firmly back down. But she was not going to allow that to stop her voicing her opinion.

“Why did you let those buffoons tell you to come here?” she demanded of Dimitri. “You must go home. Don’t they realise they’ve put you in danger? Of all the goddess-cursed ideas…”

Dimitri had to stifle a laugh. When she grew irritated, Byleth tended to forget her position and begin speaking like a mercenary again. At his reaction, real anger flashed in her eyes.

“This isn’t funny,” she said. “How will I defend you against them if I keep fainting?”

“Byleth,” Dimitri said, trying to keep the affection from his voice and knowing he failed, “I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“Marianne!”

Dimitri flinched at the volume of Cyril’s shout. He saw Byleth recoil as well, her hands twitching towards her ears. Seteth’s lips thinned.

“Oh!” Cyril bowed in apology, although Dimitri doubted Byleth could see it. “I’m sorry, but everything is ready for Her Grace.”

Seteth grabbed Cyril and steered him towards the door.

“Very good,” he said. “Now let’s deal with His Majesty’s retinue.”

When they were gone, Byleth sighed and said, “I hope he doesn’t go too hard on him.”

Having been on the receiving end of Seteth’s disapproval, Dimitri nodded in agreement. Marianne, who Dimitri doubted had ever incurred the man’s wrath, ignored the comment entirely, clearly more concerned with her patient’s wellbeing.

“How do you feel?” she asked, pressing her fingers against Byleth’s wrist to check her pulse. “Is there any dizziness?”

Byleth shook her head.

“Do you think you can stand?”

This time, a pained smile crept across Byleth’s face.

“Must I? I’m not dizzy, but my legs feel all wobbly.”

Marianne placed Byleth’s arm by her side. “I will be happier when you are back in bed. But you should not stand until you feel able.”

“If you help me…”

Dimitri recognised the tone in Byleth’s voice. She felt guilty for what she considered inconveniencing Marianne, and was about to suggest something rash. Byleth had always been incapable of letting anyone down; one only had to consider all the extra missions the Blue Lions had taken on during their schooling and the war to know that. So before she could make her suggestion, Dimitri swept her into his arms.

Marianne gasped and Byleth squeaked.

“What are you…” Byleth stammered.

Ignoring them both, Dimitri concentrated on safely standing. Byleth squeaked again as she was jolted. Dimitri couldn’t help but grin a little when she threw her arms around his neck.

“I won’t drop you,” he said, smiling down at her.

Byleth relaxed her grip, allowing one hand to come to rest on his shoulder. She stared at him with wide eyes. Dimitri had to smother the urge to kiss her. When was the last time they had been this close? It must have been that horrible night he was forced to give her up.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Your Majesty?” Marianne asked. “I am keen for Her Grace to rest, but if you are not…”

“It’s nothing,” Dimitri assured her. “After all, I’ve carried Byleth before, over a much longer distance.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed. Dimitri waited a moment, but tell that she did not remember. Not that she could, having been asleep at the time.

“After your revelation,” he reminded her. “You passed out in the Sealed Forest. I had to carry you back.”

Marianne rushed towards the door.

“Let me lead the way,” she said.

Dimitri turned to follow, adjusting Byleth in his arms to try and make her more comfortable. It was only then that he realised the last time he had carried her in this way, she had been wearing armour. As had he. This time, there was only fabric between them. And adjusting her had caused her breasts to press firmly against his chest.

Dimitri coughed and turned his head, thankful that his hair was loose and curtained the blush he knew spread across his face. He only hoped Byleth didn’t notice.

**II: Garreg Mach Monastery **

The moment Dimitri lifted Byleth, butterflies swarmed in her stomach in a frenzy that had nothing to do with her sudden weightlessness. She was glad when he finally turned his gaze away. It allowed her to stare intently at the clasp of his cloak, as though it held the answers to all her questions. Why was Dimitri here? How was he here? She knew there were hundreds of nobles in Fhirdiad. Surely the king was supposed to be entertaining them or something.

Why had her first words been to tell him to leave? She wanted him to stay.

And why had he picked her up? She was deeply conscious of every place they touched. His left arm solid around her back. Her hand on his shoulder and her side against his torso. Memories rushed back unbidden, of what they had been before, and all the ways she had imagined…

With a mental slap, Byleth wiggled to try and put some distance between them. She was not allowed to feel this way.

But as she moved, Dimitri’s grip around her tightened. He cast her a glare.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

Byleth stilled. A faint blush covered Dimitri’s face.

“If you move like that, I may drop you,” he added belatedly.

He was uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Byleth’s thoughts scrambled. He must be as aware of her as she was of him. Did that mean he still loved her, or just that he found her physically attractive?

Unsure of her power to reject an advance based on either option, Byleth decided her best course of action was decidedly unromantic conversation. She wondered if she owed the first person to come to mind an apology.

“Did Seteth tell you what happened?” she asked as they reached the staircase to her quarters.

Dimitri nodded as he began to climb the stairs.

“Alois and Shamir sent a report,” he said. “Are there really no clues as to the attackers’ identities?”

“Lysithea suggested they may be connected to the Imperial School of Magic,” Byleth answered. “But I think Seteth is hiding something.”

“I thought he told you everything. You are archbishop, after all.”

“Apparently he does not.”

Dimitri paused halfway up the stairs to adjust her again.

“I’ll see what I can get out of him,” he said. “He is fairly protective of you after what happened to Rhea. It seemed to affect him deeply when she stepped down.”

“He is doing what he thinks is best. But if he tells you, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Dimitri suddenly looked down at her. Byleth’s nerves surged as he studied her with that impossibly blue eye. She could not fathom what he was thinking. His usually expressive face was emotionless.

And his stare continued for long enough that Byleth became distracted by their proximity. They were close enough that, if she lifted her head, she would be able to kiss him. Her eyes darted to his lips, remembering. She used the hand on Dimitri’s shoulder to push herself up. Dimitri took a sharp breath and his fingers dug into her thigh.

Then he was no longer looking at her and they were moving.

“We’re allies, aren’t we?” Dimitri said. His words were carefully measured. “If we’re going to catch those fiends, we have to work together. It will be like the old days.”

Byleth bit back tears. Dimitri had noticed her intention and rejected her. It hurt more than it should. So she loosened her hold on him and averted her eyes.

As she did, Byleth noticed the dirt on his cloak. She brushed it away.

“Your clothes are filthy,” she muttered as a way to control herself. It was easier to deal with emotions when there was noise to drown out what was going through her head.

Dimitri chuckled. “Well, I have come straight from the saddle.”

“You really have just arrived?” Byleth asked, her eyes darting back to his face to search for signs of tiredness. Sure enough, they were there: dark circles under his eyes and a gauntness to his cheeks. She had missed them in her combined distress and pleasure at seeing him.

“It wasn’t a difficult ride,” Dimitri said. “As king, I am forbidden from travelling alone. I must keep pace with a squad of guards, retainers, and Adele. It was slow even though we changed horses at every relay point. And that’s without mentioning Dedue.”

Byleth couldn’t help but smile at that. Dedue had never gotten used to riding. She remembered many occasions during the war when Sylvain and Ingrid had tried to help him, but no advice had ever improved his skill.

“He still isn’t better?”

“His seat is so bad the horse must be in agony. Speaking of Dedue, did you hear that Annette is pregnant?”

Byleth straightened. “Truly? That is wonderful news!”

Dimitri nodded as they entered Byleth’s bedroom to find Marianne waiting. She gestured towards the bed. The blankets had been folded back and the pillows rested against the headboard.

“Allow me to help, Your Majesty,” Marianne said, stepping forward.

“It’s not necessary,” Dimitri replied.

Byleth dropped her arm from around his neck, stretching to try and could reach the floor. A hopeless cause, really.

“Dimitri, I can…”

Before she could finish, Dimitri hoisted her higher into the air and lifted one knee onto the mattress. He leaned over the bed and sat her in the middle of it. Byleth felt cold as he let her go. But he did not retreat straight away, instead resting his weight on his arms as he looked at her. Their faces once again only inches apart.

_He needs to stop this,_ Byleth thought furiously as a shiver ran up her spine. He must be aware of what he was doing. But she knew from past experience that Dimitri was often clueless about how his words and actions could be perceived. And so she could not be sure, and that made her angry.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

Byleth nodded, not trusting herself to answer verbally. Finally, he was gone, the mattress shifting as he removed his weight.

Marianne took Dimitri’s place beside the bed. She tugged the blankets up to Byleth’s waist. Beyond her, Dimitri dropped into the chair Sylvain had left near the bed, fatigue apparent in his lack of grace. Byleth felt guilty for not noticing his exhaustion earlier.

“I would like you to take this, Your Grace,” Marianne said, demanding Byleth’s attention. She took a vial from the bedside table and uncorked it. “It will help you recover your strength and sleep peacefully.”

Byleth took the bottle and drank.

“It may make you drowsy,” Marianne continued. “If so, you should sleep.”

Byleth nodded as she wiped her mouth and handed the empty bottle back to Marianne.

“Then I will leave you to rest.”

The panic must have shown in Byleth’s face, because Marianne hesitated. Byleth glanced at Dimitri, worried he would take Marianne’s departure as a dismissal. Despite the confusion he was causing her, she did not want him to leave.

Dimitri was silent for a long moment. He seemed uncertain, but at length he asked, “Would it be a problem if I sit with Byleth for a short while?”

Marianne shook her head. “I imagine you would like some refreshment? It wouldn’t hurt Her Grace to have some tea. I will order you some.”

“No, Marianne,” Byleth said quickly. “I can ask a servant…”

“It isn’t any trouble,” Marianne said. “In fact, it would be my pleasure.”

Marianne left, closing the door behind her.

As soon as they were alone, Byleth’s mind settled irrevocably on the moment on the stairs. Embarrassment flooded her, making it difficult to think of something to say. If Dimitri brought it up, she might shrivel away.

Dimitri sighed and Byleth’s stomach flipped. But he only pushed himself up from the chair, undid his cloak and yanked it off. As he bundled the garment up, he noticed her watching him. He shrugged sheepishly and dropped it over the chair.

“I forgot how warm it is here,” he said, quickly retaking his seat.

Silence returned. Dimitri flexed his left hand. Byleth wondered if the action meant the same thing it had before–that he was nervous–or if it was because the numbness had never left. It bothered her that she, once again, didn’t know the answer. Details of his everyday life and habits were a mystery to her now. Once, she was sure she knew everything about him. What could she possibly know after more than a year of separation?

Goddess. She had not expected it to be this hard to start a conversation. She knew there were hundreds of things she wanted to speak to him about. They all escaped her.

“Yes, Annette’s baby will be born in five months or so,” Dimitri said abruptly.

Byleth thankfully grasped onto the topic.

“I have to congratulate Dedue,” she said. “Do you think he would visit me?”

“Of course, if you ask him.”

“Will you? And is Annette well?”

As she spoke, Byleth realised that she missed the bright, cheerful young woman. It was hard, being trapped at Garreg Mach.

“I saw her briefly at the Founding Day ball. She seemed happy.” Dimitri frowned. “A little distracted, maybe.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t say. I didn’t have the chance to ask.”

“Oh. The ball then, how was it?”

“It was a ball.”

There was a strange curtness to Dimitri’s answer. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, chewing his lip.

Byleth recognised this behaviour. Her question about the ball had brought something to the fore of Dimitri’s mind, perhaps something that had been eating at him for the entire conversation or even days. When he behaved like this, nothing would stop him from speaking his mind, consequences be damned. For the first time since before Rodrigue’s death, Byleth found herself fearing his words.

“Byleth,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Immediately, Byleth knew. She knew without a single doubt. Dimitri still loved her. She still loved him. Nothing had changed.

At the same time as that made her so unbelievably, ecstatically happy, it shattered her heart to pieces. Dimitri did not look at her as he spoke. He stared at the signet ring he was twisting around his finger. The signet ring that indicated his position in the same way the room they sat in revealed hers.

Nothing had changed at all.

Byleth jumped as someone knocked. Dimitri closed his eyes and blew out a breath, before standing and opening the door. Lyn, one of the kitchen servants, waddled in, bearing a tea tray.

“Your Grace,” she said, before looking at Dimitri properly and adding a hasty, “Your Majesty.”

Lyn crossed to the breakfast table and put down the tray. She swiftly poured a cup, adding one sugar and milk, before carrying it over to the bed. Byleth accepted it with thanks. Lyn smiled, her cheerfulness a counterpoint to the heaviness Byleth felt, before returning to the tray and looking quizzically at Dimitri. He still stood by the door.

“How do you take your tea, Your Majesty?” she asked.

Byleth’s heart sank as Dimitri shook his head.

“No, actually, I…err…” He glanced at Byleth. “Forgive me, By…Your Grace. I must re-join my retinue.”

Dimitri was choosing to flee. He had spoken and, facing the consequences, realised he couldn’t stomach them. Byleth understood. She couldn’t fault him for it.

Lyn put down the teapot she had been holding in wait for Dimitri’s answer. She brushed down her apron and bobbed a curtesy.

“If you need anything else, Your Grace, please ring the bell,” she said. “The healer said you are not to get up.”

“Thank you, Lyn,” Byleth said.

Lyn turned to Dimitri and gestured towards the door.

“After you, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri hesitated, then exited the room. Lyn followed quickly after and closed the door with a snap.

In the resulting silence, Byleth found she had no desire for tea. Her insides were churning and she felt like her lunch would come back up. So she leaned over and placed the cup on the bedside table.

In doing so, she saw Dimitri’s cloak abandoned on the chair. Hope rose in her. He would have to come back to retrieve it.

After several minutes of fruitless waiting, Byleth snorted in disgust at herself. She lay down with her back to the cloak, squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long silence. This chapter has gone through several redrafts as I tried to get the tone and flow right! I hope you enjoyed the final product. I am planning to get back on a regular schedule with updates now that Christmas has passed.
> 
> Belated happy holidays to you all! Since I do not think I will finalise the next chapter of this story before 2020 is upon us, I will take this opportunity to say thank you for reading and giving feedback this year. You have made my return to fanfiction writing really positive.


	15. Songs of Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain discovers his past is no longer his own. Dimitri seeks forgiveness and learns a secret.

**I: Garreg Mach Town  
Afternoon**

Garreg Mach Town had transformed since Sylvain’s last visit. All around were signs of new wealth: large houses, uniformed servants, merchants’ offices. But some things, like a person’s need for a drink, never changed. The Dancing Goose remained in its prominent position in the town square, red door and wooden sills out of place beside the clean exteriors of the surrounding shops and restaurants. The sight went some way to mending Sylvain’s mood.

Inside a small number of customers were spread across the tavern, keeping their own company. It was too early for the raucous antics of the evening. Thankful for that, Sylvain ordered a beer and retreated to an unoccupied table. No one greeted or beckoned him.

The anonymity was welcome, yet strange in a place where Sylvain had once been well known. The Dancing Goose was one of the first businesses to reopen after Byleth’s miraculous return. During the last year of the war, the Blue Lions had become regulars. It was a place of many memories. Not all pleasant, but all important.

Another reason why Sylvain had never intended to return to Garreg Mach.

For a short while, being at the monastery had not been as bad as Sylvain had feared. The moment he had arrived, he was put to work. The knights had filled him in on the details of the attack as they cleared the damage in the entrance hall. The victims had needed the sympathetic ear of someone who supposedly had influence with the king. And Byleth had needed someone to help her. Being useful was a marvellous tonic.

But while leaving the dining hall after lunch, Sylvain had heard the trumpet. A sound that he had been taught to respect from when he could walk. It meant straighten your clothes, run to the gate. Pay homage to your king and lay your life at his feet.

Dimitri had come to Garreg Mach. And Sylvain was once again useless and left to remember.

“I’ve not seen you around here before.”

Sylvain looked up as a woman dropped onto the stool beside him. Her black hair was cropped short, emphasising a sharp chin. Sylvain noted her sleeveless leather jerkin and the archer’s cuff on her arm. A mercenary. She smiled hopefully at him as she pushed a beer across the table, keeping another in hand. Sylvain considered rejecting the invitation and moving. But the beer he had bought on arrival was empty.

“Thank you,” Sylvain said, taking the mug. “You’re staying here?”

The mercenary nodded. “I rode in from the west for Founding Day and decided to stay on after what happened. I’m fairly new at the job, so work from the church would help build my reputation.”

“The knights will take care of it.”

“You never know. The archbishop used to be a mercenary. She knows we get things done quicker. Did you ride in with the king?”

Word travelled fast. Sylvain took a sip of beer to starve off regret at accepting it.

“I saw him ride through town,” the mercenary continued. “More than a dozen attendants all in blue, every single one on a mount finer than you’ll ever see.”

Sylvain snorted. She was probably right about the horses. He had not dawdled at the monastery to find out, but Dimitri must have used the king’s relay to reach Garreg Mach so quickly. A trail of fresh horses every dozen miles, selected from the best stud farms in the southern country. For use in emergencies. And the Margrave thought Sylvain had a chance with Byleth.

“I didn’t,” Sylvain finally answered.

The mercenary cradled her chin in her hands and gazed at him through her lashes.

“You look like a noble,” she said. “I suppose you visit Garreg Mach regularly.”

“Not since the war.”

“That’s odd.”

Sylvain lifted his drink. “I suppose it is.”

The mercenary pouted and feigned interest in her mug. Sylvain could smell her perfume. Roses. It was an unusual choice. Mercenaries preferred fresher scents, if they wore one at all. It told him that she was after one of two things: a job, or him. The former Sylvain couldn’t help her with, but the latter was a definite possibility. She was pretty and he needed a distraction.

“I’m Sylvain,” he said, holding out his hand.

The mercenary straightened, her face lighting with recognition.

“Of House Gautier?” she said.

Sylvain frowned. Judging by her clothing and manner, she was a commoner and, by her accent, from the highlands of Teutates. Commoners, unless they were ambitious or merchants, only knew the noble families who lived in the vicinity of their home.

“You know me?” he asked.

“Of course!”

Sylvain studied the mercenary more critically as she slid her stool closer. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Still green about the ears and too young to have been in the war. She was too forthright to be ambitious and too crude to be a merchant. Unless she had worked in the north, there was no believable way she could know his name.

“I’m Veronica,” she said, snatching his hand. “I’m so excited to meet you.”

Sylvain shook her hand and quickly released it.

“I don’t wish to be ungracious, but why?” he asked.

“I’ve heard so many stories,” she said. “I don’t know where to start.”

Wondering how he had lost the thread of the conversation so rapidly, Sylvain waited for her to decide. She did not. He could only guess she wanted him to make a suggestion.

Finally, Veronica seemed to recognise his confusion. She nudged his leg with hers and said, “The war. I want to know which stories are true.”

Sylvain thought of the ridiculous ballad he had heard at one of his father’s rare parties at Gautier Castle. It had praised Dimitri to the high heavens and credited him with the salvation of all Fódlan. A little premature, in Sylvain’s opinion.

“About Dimitri?”

“No,” Veronica said with a chuckle. Her hand rested on his knee, leaving him in no doubt as to her purpose. “The stories about the knights. About you.”

All amusement fled as Sylvain realised she was serious. But what could she have heard?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Veronica lifted her hands, counting the stories on her fingers as she listed them.

“They say Felix Fraldarius is the best swordsman to have ever lived and single-handedly defeated a demonic beast. Ashe Ubert can shoot a hawk on a cloudy day. Dedue Molinaro is supposed to have risen from the dead.”

“None of that is true,” Sylvain said, shaking his head. “Fighting a demonic beast with any weapon that’s not a Relic is suicide. Felix can hardly take one down with the Aegis Shield. And I challenge someone to kill Dedue in the first place. He’s a bloody mountain.”

Veronica’s shoulders sank. “Then what about when you took a blade meant for His Majesty?”

That was true. During the battle at Derdriu, Dimitri had been cut off from the rest of the army. Sylvain led his unit to help. In the fight, he took a rapier to the arm while shielding Dimitri. But it had just been a cut, an insignificant injury that had left a scar. Nothing near serious enough to warrant the admiration in Veronica’s eyes.

“It was a nick,” Sylvain said flatly.

Veronica tapped her fingers across the table.

“Still,” she said, “your actions speak for themselves.”

“Of what?”

“Your dedication to your duty. No other knights returned so quickly to battle, but the moment the treaty was signed you went north to defend the border. And then you eradicated the rebels hiding in Fódlan’s Fangs. You didn’t even attend His Majesty’s coronation.”

Stuck between horror and fascination, Sylvain opened his mouth to contradict Veronica. But as he did, she smiled at him. It made him pause. He wanted a distraction. What she had said was a lie, but lies had never stopped him before. And if he corrected her, he would have to tell the truth. The horrid truth.

After the treaty, Sylvain had travelled from Enbarr with the Kingdom army as far as the Great Bridge of Myrddin. There, he had separated from Dimitri and Byleth to take the road north. But not to Gautier territory. Under the care of a contingent of soldiers from Galatea, he had accompanied Ingrid on her final journey home.

Truthfully, he had few memories of those weeks. Those that he did possess, he tried to forget every day. Count Galatea collapsing across his daughter’s coffin. Krist sitting silently by an empty fireplace, staring at charcoal stained bricks. Sneaking into Ingrid’s room and laying down on her bed in the hope that her scent lingered on the sheets. Discovering they had been laundered.

The Blue Lions had travelled to Galatea for the funeral. Beside Ingrid’s grave, Felix and Dimitri had urged Sylvain to return with them to Garreg Mach. Byleth had remained silent. Sylvain had never been more grateful to her than in that moment. She had understood. There was nothing at the monastery for Sylvain but reminders of Ingrid. And that was the reason he had not attended Dimitri’s coronation. It had nothing to do with the Sreng.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain said, her name falling off the end of his thoughts. “Are there stories about Ingrid?”

Veronica’s smile faltered. “It must be painful to talk about her,” she said. “I know you were good friends.”

“I want to know.”

Veronica laid a hand on top of his. “I did hear a ballad about her the other day.”

“A song?”

Veronica tilted her head to the side and regarded him. Then she began to sing softly, as though shy of being heard.

> “Oh fair a maid from Galatea field  
To evil’s forces never would yield;  
She rode to war on pegasus’s wings  
For the sake of the Saviour King.
> 
> With Daphnel’s strength ablaze in her blood,  
She fought with rage from the heavens above;  
And with the might of Lúin’s fierce glow  
She razed the enemies sprawling below.
> 
> Though life is fleeting, her courage remains  
Her beauty not destroyed by the flames;  
This maid so fair gave all she could give  
And knew no love but death’s final kiss.
> 
> She rode to glory on pegasus’s wings  
And gave her life for the Saviour King.”

The last note faded. Sylvain clenched his fists as the occupants of a nearby table began to clap. Veronica blushed and nodded at them in thanks.

“It’s a pretty song, don’t you think?” Veronica asked, turning back to Sylvain.

“It’s wrong,” he said.

“How so?”

Knowing he should not have spoken, Sylvian grabbed his mug and drained it. Veronica was not deterred.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Sylvain slammed the mug onto the table and wiped his mouth.

“She was in love with Glenn Fraldarius,” he said.

Veronica gasped. “But he died in the Tragedy! How terrible. Did she speak about him often?”

No more. Sylvain stood, knocking the table in his haste. Veronica jumped out of the way.

“Sylvain?”

He ignored her, striding from the tavern in the direction of the monastery.

**II: Royal Accommodation (Garreg Mach Monastery)**

Dimitri remembered how thrilled he had been to learn that class meant nothing at the Officers Academy. In his naiveté, he had viewed Garreg Mach as a respite from the associated nonsense of relying on Crests, denying other skills and abilities, and the bowing and scraping. His mistake had not become apparent until after his coronation, when Seteth had insisted that Dimitri move into the royal apartments. Hidden on the third floor of a nondescript building near the cathedral, they attested to the fact that social status could not be escaped even in the refuge of the church.

Dimitri sat down on the bed and absently ran a hand over the blanket as he looked around the room. At least it was modest. The apartment had only a bedroom and an antechamber, unlike his rooms in Fhirdiad, and retainers had to bunk in the regular guest accommodations. Although the apartment had obviously been furnished with a royal couple in mind. The bed was almost as large as the one at home and there were two chairs in the antechamber.

That great expectation was on Dimitri’s mind more since he arrived at the monastery. Perhaps it was the memory of Byleth dwarfed in her own enormous bed, looking so beautiful and…

“Dimitri.”

Dedue accompanied the words with a sharp knock on the doorframe that startled Dimitri from his thoughts. He looked up to see Dedue had one of Dimitri’s shirts draped over his arm and a pair of his boots in hand.

Dimitri stood. “Dedue, you don’t need to unpack for me,” he said.

“It is nothing,” Dedue replied. “But I do have a question. I cannot locate your cloak. Did you forget it in Seteth’s office?”

Dimitri frowned and walked through to the antechamber. His bag was open atop the chest of drawers, and one drawer was open with Dimitri’s spare tunic folded inside. He was sure he had…

“No, it isn’t in Seteth’s office,” he said slowly, remembering. He was an idiot.

Dedue put down Dimitri’s boots and draped the shirt over one of the chairs.

“If you tell me where it is, I will fetch it,” he said.

Dimitri almost flinched as he looked at Dedue.

“I… It’s in Byleth’s room.”

Dedue raised his eyebrows. Dimitri knew exactly which conversation his friend was remembering. It made the situation even worse.

“Please don’t make this…”

The door to the hallway flew open. Before Dimitri could see who it was, he was shoved against the wall. He winced as his head cracked against the wood panelling. In the momentary blindness that followed, someone grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him forward. He choked as the fabric tightened around his neck.

“They’re singing about her,” Sylvain said. “They’re telling stories about how she died for you.”

When Dimitri’s vision cleared, Sylvain’s face was mere inches from his own. Dimitri could smell the alcohol on his breath. But his eyes were clear. He wasn’t drunk, at least.

In the next moment, Sylvain was wrenched away from him. Dedue threw him across the room. Sylvain grunted as he fell against the chest of drawers and sank to the floor.

“How dare you threaten His Majesty?” Dedue growled. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

Dedue reached out to grab Sylvain again. Dimitri straightened, placing a hand against the wall to steady himself. He felt dizzy, but he couldn’t let his friends kill each other.

“Dedue, stop!”

Dedue looked over his shoulder, the scuff of Sylvain’s coat in his hand. Dimitri shook his head. Reluctantly, Dedue shoved Sylvain back to the floor.

“Leave us,” Dimitri said to Dedue.

“Your Majesty…”

“Now.”

Dedue’s shoulders tensed. “I will be in the hall,” he said, with a warning glance at Sylvain.

Knowing that was the only option on offer, Dimitri nodded agreement. Dedue tugged on the door as he exited, leaving it open a crack.

Dimitri faced Sylvain.

“Tell me what I can do,” he said.

Sylvain reached an arm up and grabbed the top of the chest of drawers. He used it to leverage himself to his feet. Dimitri waited while he brushed himself down and straightened his coat. There was a tear at its shoulder, where Dedue had grabbed him.

When Sylvain spoke, the anger remained in his voice.

“Did you know?” he asked. “Did you know they’re talking about her? Singing about her? Glorifying her death as though it meant something?”

It took Dimitri a moment to understand what Sylvain meant. But once he did, he felt a stab of guilt.

Since the end of the war, Sylvain had only been in Fhirdiad twice: for Founding Day, which had not been a long enough visit to count, and, before that, during Lone Moon. The ballads had not been popular then. Neither would Sylvain have heard them in Gautier, which was too far north, too remote, to be of interest to travelling entertainers. So all the things Dimitri had learned to block from his ears would be new to Sylvain. And no doubt Garreg Mach was teeming with songstresses eager to share tales of the war.

Dimitri should have prepared him.

“They sing about us all,” he said.

“So you did know,” Sylvain laughed. “Make them stop.”

“I can’t.”

Sylvain pointed at Dimitri.

“You enjoy it,” he accused. “You enjoy being the hero, the Saviour King.”

Dimitri laughed bitterly. “There is very little about it I enjoy. Do you think I like being reminded that my friends risked their lives to save mine? To hear Ingrid and Rodrigue referred to as noble sacrifices? I held Rodrigue in my arms as he died. There was nothing noble about it. He choked on his own blood, spat it across my face as he struggled to breathe.”

“They talk about her like they know her! What gives them the right?”

The door creaked. Dimitri shook his head as Dedue appeared there. He had to face this, to see it through. Alone.

“I tried to correct them at first,” Dimitri said as Dedue retreated. “But they tell the stories because they need to make sense of the war. I can’t deny them resolution. It’s harmless.”

“It isn’t! She’s mine!”

“They only want to honour her, Sylvain. You can’t get angry at them for that.”

“Don’t put the blame on me,” Sylvain snapped.

“I’m not.”

Sylvain groaned, throwing his hands in the air.

“I was at peace on the border,” he said. “I was surviving. Why did you force me to leave?”

Dimitri took a step towards him.

“I was worried about you,” he said. “The things I’ve heard…”

“I can’t be here, Dimitri.”

On Sylvain’s face, Dimitri saw the same broken expression he remembered from the day they had buried Ingrid. That day Sylvain had refused to return to Garreg Mach despite Felix’s pleas. Dimitri had not seen him stand so steadfast against Felix before or since. Had that been a sign of what was to come?

“We thought this would help you,” Dimitri said quietly.

Sylvain snorted. “So Felix was in on this? Goddess. Let me tell you what helps. Beer and a woman. Both of which are easily obtained in Gautier. Let me go home.”

“You need to let yourself…”

“Don’t judge me and tell me to move on. You raced across the country to be with Byleth.”

A chill raced through Dimitri’s veins. He glanced at the cracked door.

“The archbishop…” he began.

“I know about the engagement, idiot,” Sylvain interrupted. “Your darling Margrave told me. At least I’m not holding out for a woman I turned away. Take your own advice.”

Sylvain yanked the door open and left. Dimitri stared after him. Despising his failure and dreading what came next.

Sure enough, Dedue appeared in the doorway, wearing an expression of absolute dismay.

“Forgive my carelessness,” he said with a bow. “I did not realise. If I had known, of course, I would never have said such things.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Dimitri sighed. “You didn’t know about…me and Byleth.”

The words were a struggle to say after keeping silent for so long. To utter them was to admit that he had been lying to Dedue. But Dedue seemed unfazed by it. Altogether too forgiving.

“Allow me to assure you this knowledge will go no further,” Dedue said.

Dimitri rubbed the back of his head where it had struck the wall.

“If I needed your guarantee you would not be my retainer,” he said. Then he laughed. “Do you want to hear the amusing part of all this? There is one ballad I made sure will never be performed again. It was mere speculation on the songstress’s part, but she knew the truth once I bought her silence.”

**III: Cathedral (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Evening**

The last strains of the evensong spun through the air as Dimitri walked towards the altar. The scaffolding erected for the dome repairs traced a dark grid across the grey stone walls, and some of the chapels were in a sorry state, but the majesty of the cathedral still overwhelmed him. With the stained glass glowing with the light of the setting sun, the building seemed of heaven. There was nowhere in Fódlan where Dimitri felt closer to the divine. From his first visits as a young boy, he had sensed power in the land of the Mach region. It was a place where saints had surely walked. A place where prayer could truly transport you into the goddess’s presence.

At the same time, the beauty of his surroundings reminded Dimitri how unworthy he was. It may be easy for some people to forget their darkest moments, but he could sometimes still feel the hard stone under his knees as he begged for deliverance from the ghosts. The sting of the knife in his shoulder, accusing him as Edelgard crumpled over Areadbhar. Or even the weight of a full purse in his hand as a songstress gave him a sly smile. His sins were small as well as great.

Dimitri took a seat in the first pew and looked up at the image of the goddess. It had been masterfully restored by craftsmen from Enbarr. Its beauty was even greater than the previous image.

Dimitri clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

“Oh Goddess, hear my prayer,” he whispered. “Though the thunder sounds and the lightning strikes, we rest in your divine protection. Receive the lost into your embrace and make them as stars in the night sky, shining with your mercy. May their pain be eased and their sorrows calmed. May they be protected forevermore from the wars which ravage our world.”

The chorale’s footsteps echoed as they filed out of the choir. Dimitri continued to pray.

When he was finished, Dimitri discovered the daylight was gone. Attendants wandered throughout the building to check the tapers. Few worshippers were left. In the winter, no one lingered too long in the cathedral when there was a warm hearth at home.

The candlelight flickered. The image of the goddess seemed to move in the shadows. Compelled by something deep within, Dimitri rose and bowed towards the altar. As he did, footsteps announced someone’s approach.

“Your Majesty.”

It was Seteth. Dimitri straightened and turned to him.

“Good evening,” he said.

Seteth gestured towards the pew. Dimitri sat down again, rubbing his temple. His head had been aching since the altercation with Sylvain. Unfortunately, he suspected it had little to do with the blow he had taken.

“I trust your visits with the victims of the attack went well?” Seteth asked as he sat beside Dimitri.

“As well as can be expected. There was so little I could do for them,” Dimitri said.

“Compassion is more powerful than you realise.”

Dimitri glanced at the goddess’s image. He knew the importance of compassion. But coming from him, he was suspicious of its worth.

“Your Majesty,” Seteth said, turning on the bench towards him, “may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, but I overheard some of your prayers. I noticed you began with one of mourning, but not the prayer usually employed in situations such as these.”

Dimitri laughed. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“No,” he said. “It was the prayer for victims of war.”

“I recognised it. Is there a particular reason you chose that one?”

“It is part of my penance. Although I must admit I felt a particular need for it today. Have I done wrong in using it?”

“Not at all,” Seteth replied, standing. “Forgive my curiosity.”

Remembering his promise to Byleth, Dimitri followed Seteth as he headed towards the saints’ chapel.

“Will you forgive mine in return?” he asked.

Seteth nodded absently.

“Do you have any thoughts regarding the motivation behind the attack?” Dimitri asked.

Seteth stilled, forcing Dimitri to stop abruptly.

“Byleth mentioned something to you, didn’t she?” Seteth said.

Dimitri scrambled for a response.

“I only…”

Seteth shook his head as he crossed to the statue of Saint Cethleann. Dimitri trailed him once again.

“No need to be ashamed,” Seteth said. “I have always thought a lack of guile to be a good quality in a leader.”

Seteth looked up. Dimitri followed his gaze. Cethleann’s expression was gentle and serene. No wonder Seteth often lingered here.

“I should have known I could not hide the truth from Her Grace,” Seteth said at length. “She has always been discerning. But I did not expect her to send you to question me.”

Dimitri shrugged helplessly. “To be honest, I don’t know exactly what she wants me to ask.”

“She wishes to know the identity of the Nabateans.”

Dimitri looked at Seteth. He kept his focus on the statue, his entire manner calm despite having been caught in deception.

“The Nabateans?” Dimitri asked.

“The people upon whom the attackers wished revenge.” Seteth reached out and touched Cethleann’s foot in a gesture of respect. “The truth is that the Nabateans were the goddess’s champions. The heroes who followed her teachings.”

Surprised, Dimitri glanced around at the four statues around them.

“The saints?” he questioned.

“Including Seiros herself,” Seteth said. “But that name was lost to history many years ago. These days it is only known to the church leaders.”

“Then why is Byleth unaware of it?”

“There has never been reason to mention it. You know how much Byleth has taken upon herself. I judged it an insignificant detail in comparison. But now…the fact that the villains employed the name means that Byleth was not their only target. They wish to destroy the church itself.”

Those words ignited panic in Dimitri. It stirred visions of another war, of more fighting.

“You think they are aligned with Edelgard’s views?” Dimitri asked.

Seteth shrugged.

“I doubt Edelgard knew the name, so it seems unlikely any of her followers did. But we cannot know. It may be because of the war. It may be an ancient grudge. It is something we will have to investigate.”

“But what could they hope to gain from attacking the church?”

“I do not know,” Seteth said, shaking his head. “Either way, I cannot discuss it now. I must get some rest. The past few days have been trying.”

Dimitri took a step backwards.

“Of course,” he said. “We will discuss it when Byleth is stronger.”

Seteth bowed and left without hesitation, leaving Dimitri alone with the statue of Cethleann. He looked up at her. The conversation with Seteth had only left him feeling more uneasy.

“Nabatean,” he muttered.

Why had Seteth tried to hide the name from Byleth if it was insignificant?

Dimitri’s headache sharpened. He reached out and touched the Cethleann’s foot, whispering a quick prayer for healing.

“Your Majesty!”

Dimitri looked over his shoulder to see Flayn. She smiled brightly as she dropped into a curtesy. Feeling a surge of affection for the girl, Dimitri helped her up from it.

“Flayn,” he said, “are you well? I have missed your cooking.”

Flayn flushed with pleasure. It was remarkable how little she had changed since he first met her at the Academy. Despite all they had been through, she retained an optimism and enthusiasm no one could ever match.

“I am well, Your Majesty,” Flayn said. “And I would be happy to cook for you while you are here. But I am here because my brother told me you visited with the professor. He will not allow me to see her, so you must tell me how she fares.”


	16. Opera Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare drives Byleth to Dimitri's door. Dimitri struggles to open up to Byleth. Meanwhile, Mercedes and Ashe attend the opera.

**I: The Archbishop’s Quarters (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Morning**

Byleth shot upright.

“Dimitri!” she cried.

His name bounced off the multi-coloured walls. Byleth could not fathom where she was. The air was heavy and stale, and she couldn’t breathe. She struggled against the heavy weight pinning her legs down, stumbling as her feet. A woollen blanket fell to the floor.

It was then Byleth recognised the room. The colours on the wall were reflections of the stained glass window above her bed, where she now sat. She gripped the edge of the mattress, digging her fingers into it to ground her. She was archbishop of the Church of Seiros and she was safe at Garreg Mach.

The moment of panic was over, but a sour anxiety remained. Byleth pushed herself up and opened the bedroom door. There was no one in the hallway. Odd. But good. Before someone could materialise, Byleth hurried down the passage to the Star Terrace.

Outside, the icy morning air filled her lungs, cooling the blood racing through her veins. She closed her eyes and allowed the sounds of the monastery to remind her. The war was over. Edelgard was gone, buried in the tomb of her ancestors in Enbarr. Dimitri was king.

Byleth knew all of this was true, but what she had seen in her sleep rattled her nonetheless. She could still feel rain stinging her face, smell the sharp scent of blood and soil mixed together. The armies had churned the ground into mud, and Dimitri was on his knees in the mess, Areadbhar broken on the ground beside him. Edelgard raised the strange axe she had wielded at Gronder. Its head glowed with power.

“You…” Dimitri spat blood from his mouth and glared up at Edelgard with two narrowed eyes. “You will beg for mercy, but none will be given.”

“Will you never yield?” Edelgard replied. “But no, obstinacy to the point of madness was always your greatest strength. And in the end, that’s all you amount to. A king of delusion.”

Hubert, as battle-worn as the rest of them, joined Byleth to watch. As Edelgard’s axe fell, he dropped a hand on Byleth’s shoulder as though in comfort. But Byleth didn’t need it. She felt nothing for the defeated king. Dimitri must be eliminated. He was blocking the way to Rhea. She turned to Hubert to tell him so, meeting his yellow gaze.

Byleth opened her eyes. Hubert, like Edelgard, was dead. Even with all his power, he had been unable to stand against their army. Byleth had thought she was done with dreaming about the people she had not saved. It was upsetting to find she was wrong.

But that was not the part of her dream that disturbed her the most. The anger and hatred in Dimitri’s face had been too familiar. The agony as he cursed Edelgard with his dying breath, something she had heard before. Byleth had nearly lost Dimitri to those emotions. And, when she was honest with herself, she was scared that she still would.

The morning song drew Byleth’s eyes towards the spires of the cathedral. Below them was the building containing the royal accommodation. Byleth could not see it from the Star Terrace, but she knew it was there. Knew the way to it and that the doorman would not bar her entry. Even though the royal apartments were not supposed to be visited without invitation, especially when the king was in residence.

Byleth bit her lip, thinking. Then she spun her back on the morning and rushed inside.

**II: Royal Accommodation (Garreg Mach Monastery)**

Dimitri had hoped the warm water of a bath would ease the ache in his mind as well as the ones in his body. No such luck. He climbed out of the tub feeling that most of his physical complaints from days in the saddle were gone, but the worries of uniting Faerghus, of Sylvain, of Byleth, remained. As well as the new information from Ashe about the unrest in Enbarr.

The messenger had ridden into Garreg Mach the night before to beg a bed on his way to Fhirdiad. After hearing his mission, the gatekeeper had brought him straight to Dimitri. Dimitri was glad of it; he would not have wished to receive the note a moment later. Even if it was too late to stop the attack.

Because what if it was not too late? That niggling thought had kept Dimitri up all night. What if there was worse to come?

Dimitri slipped his arms into a robe and grabbed a towel before crossing to his desk. He picked up Ashe’s letter and re-read it as he rubbed his hair dry. It was natural that the people of Enbarr were angry. Dimitri had killed their emperor and taken their independence. Things like that could never be truly forgiven.

The door of the antechamber opened. Dimitri dropped Ashe’s letter and used his free hand to tug his robe closed, as Dedue attempted to slip discretely around the door.

“The water is cool enough to be emptied,” Dimitri said, nodding at the tub as he tied the robe’s belt. “About Ashe’s warning, though…”

“The archbishop is here,” Dedue interrupted, pulling open a drawer.

Dimitri blinked. The words took a moment to make sense.

“Alone?” he asked, once they did.

“Yes,” Dedue said. He threw a shirt at Dimitri, followed by a pair of trousers. Dimitri caught them. “Do you plan to greet her naked?”

Dimitri flushed at his friend’s slight teasing. He tugged on the robe’s belt and faced away from Dedue, who had begun to straighten the room.

Dimitri dressed quickly, all the while wishing he had an excuse to refuse Byleth. He had spent the better part of the previous day trying to summon the courage to visit her. He had to tell her about the Nabateans, after all. But every time he came close to climbing the stairs to Byleth’s room, the embarrassment of what had happened after his arrival prevented him. The embarrassment of what he had said. He knew Byleth had understood the meaning behind his words, yet she had said nothing in return. And he had come out looking the lovesick, pathetic fool who could not leave the past where it belonged.

The knock came as Dimitri pulled his shirt over his head. He endeavoured to tuck it in at the same time as throwing his robe into the bedroom and shutting the connecting door. Dimitri looked up just as Dedue opened the main door.

Byleth looked well, better than when Dimitri had seen her two days earlier. She was standing without assistance. She was also dressed in one of the archbishop’s gowns, with her hair was gathered up and pinned, suggesting a full recovery.

But at the same time, there was something odd about her. Dimitri was not well versed in magic, but he swore he felt wisps of it reaching towards him. He felt the presence of something…otherworldly.

Then, Byleth’s attention turned towards the right side of his face.

Dimitri clapped a hand over his eye and the scars that surrounded it, spinning away from Byleth. He fumbled through the mess on the desk. The absolute silence in the room weighed down on him as he searched. Goddess, would he ever cease to make a fool of himself? Of course, it was nothing Byleth hadn’t seen before. There had been unguarded moments after Rodrigue’s death, Cornelia’s confession, battlefield wounds. But that was all before the night in the Goddess Tower.

Finally, Dimitri found his eye patch and pulled it on. In the pause that followed, he was still, wishing he could disappear.

“I’m sorry,” Byleth said quietly.

Dimitri took a deep breath and turned back to find Byleth hugging herself, staring at the tub. Avoiding looking at him. Dedue, on the other hand, was frowning apologetically. He was used to Dimitri going without the eye patch in private. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to mention it was missing. Because it was only Byleth.

Honestly, Dimitri wasn’t sure himself why it mattered that she didn’t see his wound.

“It’s fine,” Dimitri said to both of them, forming the words around a lump in his throat.

Byleth lifted her eyes towards him. She was embarrassed, her cheeks dusted pink. Dimitri clenched his fists. He had embarrassed her. It was not a good start.

“It’s good you’ve come, Byleth,” Dimitri said. He picked up Ashe’s letter. “I need to speak with you.”

Silence stretched between them, until Dedue bowed and slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Dimitri was sure he had thought it would help, it did not. Byleth still did not speak. Dimitri worried the edges of the letter.

“Was there something you needed to say?” he asked her. If there was, she could answer him and leave, as she clearly wished to.

“What do you mean?” Byleth asked.

Dimitri sighed in relief.

“You came here to see me?” he prompted.

“Yes, but…” Byleth paused and dropped her arms by her side. “No. It is nothing. I interrupted your bath.”

“I was finished.”

Byleth looked up at him.

“You should dry your hair,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

Truthfully, the collar of Dimitri’s shirt was soaked. Byleth smiled a little, revealing she had noticed.

“What do you need to say?” she asked.

“I need…that is, I want to discuss this with you,” Dimitri said, holding up the letter. He gestured towards the chairs by the window. “Sit?”

Byleth nodded and crossed the room. She adjusted her skirts as she sat down, spreading them in the same way a noblewoman did. As Dimitri took a seat on the edge of the chair opposite, he wondered when she had started doing that. Instead of reflecting on how right it felt to have her sitting across from him, in the place his consort would one day occupy.

“It’s from Ashe,” Dimitri said.

He unfolded the paper and passed it to Byleth. She accepted it. Dimitri stared at his hands as he continued to explain.

“He met Mercedes by accident in Enbarr. They encountered a strange person who…”

“Dimitri.”

Dimitri looked up. Byleth was not reading the letter. It hung loosely from her fingers as she studied him.

“You know that before all else, I am here to help you,” Byleth said. “With whatever is troubling you. Anything.”

“Why would you think something is troubling me?” Dimitri asked.

Byleth shrugged. “Perhaps I know you too well.”

Dimitri smiled.

“That’s not fair,” he said. “I came here to help you.”

“I’m archbishop. I’ve got the monopoly on helping people.”

Dimitri laughed, and Byleth did too. He hated how natural it felt. How much he had missed laughing with her.

“Let’s start with Sylvain?” Byleth suggested.

Dimitri sighed. “He…he isn’t himself. He hasn’t been…”

“…since Ingrid died,” Byleth finished.

Dimitri sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“I can’t imagine what he is going through,” he said. “But he is beginning to hurt himself. Felix thinks you can help him.”

“I can try. But you should tell me exactly what worries you about his behaviour.”

Dimitri nodded.

“Also,” he said, “I spoke with Seteth. I should have visited you yesterday and told you, but…”

“I imagine you were busy.”

Byleth sighed as she spoke and smoothed Ashe’s letter out on her lap. Dimitri wondered why she was offering him an escape, but took it anyway.

“You were right. He knows who the Nabateans are,” he said.

“Then we do have things to discuss,” Byleth replied. “And this letter?”

Dimitri waited while Byleth read it. He took the opportunity to examine her for any lingering signs of illness. Colour had returned to her cheeks, and her movements were surer than they had been two days earlier. He remembered the strange power that had lingered about her when she arrived, but all signs of it were gone now. Or he simply couldn’t sense them.

“Do you think this stranger was speaking about the attack on Garreg Mach?” Byleth asked as she finished.

“Perhaps,” Dimitri said, reluctantly ceasing his study as she looked up. “Whatever he meant, it concerns me. I can’t risk a riot in Enbarr, not when we are finally making progress with the Adrestian nobility.”

Byleth folded Ashe’s letter in half.

“You want me to go to Enbarr,” she guessed.

Dimitri chuckled. “How did you figure out my plan so quickly?”

“You very well cannot go,” Byleth said with a smile. Then she sighed again. “But I’m not sure I’m the best candidate. My position is supposed to be neutral, it is true, but the fact is I fought with you. They may not take my presence calmly.”

“You’re the only person I can trust with this, By,” Dimitri said, leaning towards her. “You could deliver some masses, visit with the sick and the ex-soldiers. Even though Edelgard was against the church, she never forbade people their faith. I am sure there are many in Enbarr who would welcome you.”

Dimitri could see that Byleth was still unsure. He wondered when she had begun to doubt herself. Hoping he could help, he reached out and took her hand.

“I’ve thought about this all night,” Dimitri said. “It’s the best solution I can come up with.”

Byleth frowned. She put Ashe’s letter aside and placed her hand on top of his, enclosing it entirely between hers.

“You didn’t sleep?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

Dimitri swallowed at the abrupt change in topic, from protecting Fódlan to himself. It wasn’t entirely safe, to discuss himself with Byleth.

“When I was young I viewed sleep as a waste of time,” Dimitri said slowly. “If only I’d known what a luxury it is.”

Byleth’s lips twitched. Dimitri sensed that she was not convinced by his joke. He suddenly wished Felix was around. He would know what to say to keep the conversation focused, in the place it needed to be.

“Mercedes and Ashe will be there to help you,” Dimitri tried.

“I’ll go, Dimitri,” Byleth said.

It was not what he had expected her to say, and Dimitri found himself without a response. Byleth let go of his hand and sat back. She tilted her head to the side, glancing at Ashe’s letter.

“Because it is you asking me, I will go,” she said.

**III: Mittelfrank Opera House (Enbarr)  
Late Evening**

It wasn’t until a hand covered hers that Mercedes realised she was tapping the arm of the chair. Ashe smiled gently at her.

“You’re still worried, aren’t you?” he said. “We did everything we could. Dimitri will know about the threat soon enough.”

Mercedes shook her head. “I cannot help but feel that something terrible has already happened.”

“If it has, we can’t do anything about it. No one has that power.” Ashe gestured towards the stage in front of them. “At least enjoy the rest of the performance.

Truthfully, Mercedes could barely remember the first two acts of the opera they were watching. But she kept this to herself as she glanced at the people around her. They were quite a magnificent sight. All the finest silks, velvets, and jewels had been brought out of Enbarr’s closets for the evening. To the city’s elite, a performance at the Mittelfrank Opera was little more than an opportunity to show off. Mercedes would bet that even the people in the pit below spent more time gawking at the occupants of the balcony than watching the show.

Ashe and Mercedes looked out of place. Neither of them had packed suitable clothing for the opera. It had not figured in either of their plans. But they had both returned to their lodgings the day before to discover a free ticket to the performance, folded in a piece of paper signed simply with a “D~.”

“How do you think Dorothea found out we were in Enbarr?” Ashe asked, shifting in his seat.

“She told me once that opera singers know more about what happens in a city than spies,” Mercedes answered, keeping her voice casual. She did not want Ashe to know her thoughts had been occupied with that very person. “Now that she is head of the company, I suppose she has access to all sorts of information.”

Ashe frowned as the gas lights were lowered.

“So I should start befriending singers?” he asked.

“Perhaps.”

As the final act began, Mercedes allowed herself to be drawn from her worries into the story. The opera was a classic, the tale of a poor country girl who fell in love with a noble in disguise. The music swelled as the nobleman threw himself to the ground beside the grave of the girl, who in death had saved him from vengeful spirits. The finale was greeted with rapturous applause.

As the nobleman helped the country girl to her feet for the final bow, the audience in the pit stamped their feet. They booed the nobleman and cheered the girl. The leads laughed at the reaction, before gesturing to the right side of the stage. From there, a woman wearing a magnificent silver gown entered.

Ashe elbowed Mercedes. As though she needed his help to recognise their old school friend.

Dorothea crossed to the centre of the stage, placed her hand over her heart and curtsied. Several people, both in the pit and balcony, released loud whoops. Mercedes could understand why. She had never met anyone as beautiful as Dorothea, nor with as much natural grace. Under the stage lights, with shimmering pins of silver and crystal scattered throughout her mahogany hair, she looked like a nymph from a fairy tale.

A blush rose to Mercedes’s cheeks as Dorothea singled out her and Ashe. They were seated on the right curve of the balcony, close enough to the stage for Mercedes to make out the smirk that shaped the songstress’s lips. Then Dorothea abruptly looked away, blew the audience a kiss, and exited the stage.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to see her,” Ashe said.

Mercedes stood, allowing an impatient neighbour to push past her and step over Ashe on his way to the exit. The man was thwarted by a porter inching down the row in the opposite direction. The porter received several curses and shoves in response to his efforts, and when he stopped beside Ashe, his black cap was askew and his breath short.

“Are you Mistress Martritz and Master Ubert?” he asked loudly.

Heads turned in their direction. Ashe shrunk a little into his seat. To the porter, Mercedes offered a smile and nod. He pushed his cap back into place as he turned in the direction he had come.

“Follow me, please,” he said, recommencing the battle against the milling audience.

Ashe went first, reaching behind to grab Mercedes’s hand so they wouldn’t be separated. The porter led them to a door marked for staff, which he held open for Ashe and Mercedes. Beyond it, Mercedes was intrigued to discover none of the opulence of the theatre hall. Instead they were faced with a narrow corridor ending in a wooden staircase.

The door slammed behind them, causing Mercedes and Ashe to jump. The porter was impassive to their fright.

“Down the stairs,” he instructed.

At the bottom, the porter pushed past them to take the lead. A few dusty stage props littered the floor, forcing Mercedes to watch her feet. They passed odd nooks where stagehands were pausing for a pipe or drink, and makeshift storage areas with glittering costumes and terrifying masks. Seeing the bowels of the theatre woke a nervous excitement in Mercedes. It was another world, the like of which she had never seen.

The corridor suddenly ended, opening up on a large space where half a dozen workers were moving stage sets. Mercedes looked up to see a vast wooden ceiling and realised they were under the stage. She could make out the trapdoors by the stage lights that still burned above.

“The trap room,” the porter said, noticing her interest. “Mainly we store set pieces here, but the actors use it to travel from one side of the stage to the other.”

Mercedes nodded as the porter herded them into a corridor on the other side of the room. This one was carpeted and lined with doors. Each one had a piece of parchment bearing a name in calligraphy pinned to it.

“Dressing rooms. The lady is waiting for you in her office, just here.”

There was no question as to who the porter meant by the lady. As he threw the office door open and leaned in, Mercedes wished she had packed a more suitable dress.

“The mistress and master as you requested, ma’am.”

The porter stepped back and shoved a thumb towards the open door before scurrying away. Mercedes gestured for Ashe to go first. He did, entering without any consideration as to his appearance. Mercedes used her single moment of privacy to raise a hand to her hair, checking it remained in its braids, and to tug at her shawl so it sat neatly on her shoulders. As an afterthought, she bit her bottom lip to force some colour into it. Only then did she enter Dorothea’s office.

Dorothea was in the midst of embracing Ashe, but she drew back at the sound of Mercedes’s footsteps. A dazzling smile spread across her face. She floated over to Mercedes, taking her hands and leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Mercie, you’ve no idea how wonderful it is to see you,” she said. “Please, both of you, sit down. Did Albert take you through the back of the theatre, like I asked?”

“He did,” Ashe said enthusiastically as he dropped onto a couch in the centre of the room. “This is where you became famous, then?”

“It is,” Dorothea said, elegantly lowering herself into the chair opposite. “More than that, it was my home until I arrived at the Officers Academy. I grew up here.”

There was a slight note of regret in the final phrase. Mercedes pondered it as she sat down beside Ashe, sorting through some of the stories Dorothea had shared during meals at the academy. She wondered which of them was likely to have caused such an emotion.

“I was surprised to learn you were both in Enbarr,” Dorothea continued. She draped her arm across the armrest and arranged her other hand atop it, so her ruby and sapphire rings caught the candlelight. “I was sure all of the Blue Lions would be in Fhirdiad for the celebration.”

“Dimitri sent me to Enbarr,” Ashe said. “And Mercedes is travelling Fódlan.”

Dorothea arched an eyebrow. “Has Mercedes lost her voice?” she teased.

Mercedes smiled, glad to discover her friend had not changed.

“I did not expect to be in Enbarr for Founding Day,” she explained. “It was an accident.”

“A wonderful accident,” Dorothea said. “If Ashe is busy with Dimitri’s errands, then I will happily make do with you.”

“Whatever for?” Mercedes asked.

“Company, of course. I don’t have many friends in Enbarr.”

There was a moment of silence before Ashe voiced the question that had come immediately to Mercedes’s mind.

“Aren’t any of the Black Eagles here?”

Dorothea’s smile vanished. She sank back in her chair.

“As you know, there aren’t many of us left,” she said in a whisper. “Lin and Edie, both gone. I was never close to Ferdie or Hubert, so I guess even if they were still around we wouldn’t mix. No one knows where Caspar is. Not even his brother.”

Dorothea sighed and stood up.

“Bern never ventures out of Varley territory. As for Petra, she told me she has no plans to return to Fódlan.”

Mercedes’s heart ached. Dorothea and Petra had been inseparable at the academy.

“You didn’t wish to go with her?” Mercedes asked.

Dorothea walked over to a side table set up with a variety of drinks: whisky, port, and wine in crystal decanters.

“I considered it,” she said, running a finger around the rim of one of the matching crystal glasses, “but when I learned Manuela was staying at Garreg Mach I knew I had to return here. I could not let this place fall into ruin. But here…there are not many people who understand.”

Ashe folded his hands together and looked away from Dorothea. Mercedes knew that all three of them were thinking the same thing. There were many people who understood the war. Soldiers who fought, healers who manned the hospitals, children who lost their parents. But it had been different for the students who had attended Garreg Mach that fateful year. They, more than anyone else on the continent, had learned what it was to raise a sword against a friend.

The door clicked. Dorothea started, whipping her hand away from the glass. Mercedes turned in her seat to see a tall figure, dressed entirely in black, crowding the doorway. Her heart thumped in recognition before she realised it was no one she knew. The man was probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, bald, and wore an oiled moustache. His dark eyes widened as they stopped on Ashe and Mercedes.

“Forgive me, dear Thea,” the man said, leaning on his cane as he bowed. “I did not realise you had company.”

“Not at all, Lord Rusbart,” Dorothea said, her voice flirtatious. She crossed the room and took the man’s arm. “These are old friends of mine. But even with company, my door is never closed to you.”

Mercedes realised that Rusbart must be one of the opera’s patrons. She stood and kicked Ashe to get him to do the same.

“May I present Mercedes von Martritz and Ashe Ubert,” Dorothea said. “We were reminiscing.”

“How pleasant,” Rusbart replied. “Do you forgive me for interrupting your reunion?”

“Of course,” Mercedes said. “We were just leaving.”

“Were we?” Ashe asked, glancing towards Dorothea.

Dorothea giggled and nodded.

“In that case, I hope we meet again,” Rusbart said. He moved into the room, revealing he walked with a limp. He noticed Mercedes following his gait, and laughed awkwardly before saying, “Infection when I was a child. One leg grew longer than the other.”

Mercedes curtsied in apology. “I am sorry, my lord.”

“Mercedes is a healer,” Dorothea said quickly. “You must forgive her curiosity.”

“Of course,” Rusbart said.

Mercedes grabbed Ashe’s wrist and dragged him into the hallway. Dorothea threw a grin at Rusbart before following them.

“Mercie, promise me you’ll visit tomorrow?” Dorothea hissed as they entered the hallway.

Mercedes let go of Ashe and looked back at Dorothea. She sounded embarrassed and uncomfortable. A few of the tales Mercedes remembered clicked into place.

“Of course I will,” she said.

Dorothea grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and swung the door shut in Mercedes’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot of the opera is borrowed from the ballet Giselle.
> 
> In keeping with the new information from Cindered Shadows, I have also updated the name of Byleth's mother where it appears in earlier chapters.


	17. A Truth Better Not Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Byleth makes preparations to go to Enbarr, she seeks the truth from her friends with mixed results.

**I: Garreg Mach Monastery  
Afternoon**

Byleth found it difficult to believe. Amongst all the trouble that threatened them, she had found a quiet moment to walk through Garreg Mach with friends. Dedue and Marianne were nearby, discussing the plants in a garden bed. Ahead of her, Lysithea and Flayn strolled by the water. Their hands waved about as they gossiped, throwing an occasional comment to the person who shadowed them.

Dimitri. He glanced over his shoulder at Byleth and smiled before turning his attention back to Lysithea’s story.

After she agreed to go to Enbarr, Dimitri and Byleth had sat together in his apartment for hours. They spoke about the attack, the Nabateans, Sylvain, and politics in Fhirdiad. Perhaps they did not converse quite as easily as before, but it had gotten better the longer they spoke. The words had gradually begun to flow more freely, jokes had escaped, and Byleth had felt happy.

It was odd, because since Dimitri had arrived Byleth’s troubles had doubled. Now she had to worry not only about her duties as archbishop and the mysterious attack on the monastery, but also Sylvain, Enbarr, and Dimitri himself. But she felt somehow lighter.

Not lonely, Byleth realised. She couldn’t remember the last time she had not felt lonely.

“I cannot be easy about these arrangements, Your Grace.”

Byleth was yanked from her thoughts by Seteth’s statement. He was walking beside her, but until this point had remained silent.

“For Enbarr?” she asked, needing clarification.

Seteth nodded.

It was not surprising, Byleth considered as they followed the path around the fish pond. She had known that at some point an objection would burst out of him. The day before, Byleth had gone straight to Seteth after speaking with Dimitri. He had been shockingly calm when she broke the news and uncharacteristically open-minded when they began to make plans. It had only been a matter of time before he cracked.

“You read Ashe’s letter,” Byleth said. “You know something must be done.”

“This miscreant plainly stated that the church is not welcome in Enbarr,” Seteth argued. “It’s only been five days since we were attacked. Travelling through Fódlan can hardly be considered safe.”

Byleth considered Dimitri. Here, in the view of everyone, he was calm and in control. Alone with her, he was different. Uncertain and overwhelmed. She could not let him down.

“I promised Dimitri I would go,” she said.

Seteth sighed.

“I would never push you to break a promise,” he said. “But are you sure this is not about something else?”

Byleth looked at Seteth, confused. He crossed his arms.

“Your hesitation while performing your duties these past few weeks has not gone unnoticed,” he said. “I’m sure a trip to Enbarr is very attractive, exactly the type of thing you would have done before you were archbishop. Are you certain that you did not promise to go because you feel inadequate in your position?”

Byleth stopped. She felt a hollowness in her chest. When Dimitri had asked her, Byleth thought of only two things: Dimitri and the safety of the people. It was only later that she began to grow excited about the journey. She remembered her embarrassment after Seteth scolded her about the church’s rituals by the cathedral well. Her unease performing the benediction on Founding Day, even before the attack. The dread every night when she stood on the Star Terrace and watched the people depart, her mother’s ring heavy around her neck with all the things she wished could have been instead. Compared with her duties at Garreg Mach, this was something she could do well.

“And if I am?” she asked.

“You may not have faith in your ability, but Rhea does,” Seteth said.

Byleth took a breath. “And you?”

Seteth faltered. Byleth turned her eyes towards the greenhouse, unable to look at him while she waited for the answer. It had hurt to learn that Seteth had shared the information about the Nabateans so freely with Dimitri after refusing her.

“Perhaps my actions of late have not demonstrated it, but I do,” Seteth said, more softly than he ever spoke.

The answer only made Byleth uncomfortable. She hugged herself and changed the topic.

“If the enemy who attacked Garreg Mach is seeking to destroy the church, as you believe,” she said, “then perhaps this person in Enbarr is connected. He seems to have similar intentions.”

Seteth put a hand on Byleth’s shoulder.

“That has occurred to me as well,” Seteth said. “Instability in Faerghus would be a blow to the church. Your Dimitri is our champion, after all.”

Byleth’s eyes snapped to Seteth’s face.

“My Dimitri?” she said.

Seteth raised an eyebrow. “Is he not?”

Byleth knew no safe way to react save immediate denial.

“We haven’t broken the promise we made,” she said.

“I did not accuse you of doing so,” Seteth said. “Besides, the only way you could achieve that is by getting married.”

There was a mischief in the second phrase that caused Byleth’s mouth to fall open.

“Seteth, are you suggesting…”

Seteth held up his hands. “I am shocked you would charge me with _suggesting_ anything.”

Byleth covered her mouth to hold in her laugh. Seteth smiled, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

“I am not immune to your pain, Byleth,” he said. “I know what it is to long for someone so deeply that the days seem dark. I see how you and Dimitri suffer because of the choice you both made.”

Seteth paused as Dedue and Marianne wandered past. Marianne nodded her head at Byleth respectfully. Byleth smiled in return, but her mind was spinning. She did not understand what Seteth was trying to say.

“You asked me if I have faith in your ability to be archbishop,” he continued once Dedue and Marianne were at a safe distance. “The truth is, for a very long time I trusted Rhea’s judgement rather than you. Even after you rescued Flayn, the recovery of the Sword and the goddess’s blessing, my doubts would not fully ease. It was only on the day of Dimitri’s coronation, when I saw you were willing to give up the person you treasured most in the world for the sake of the people of Fódlan, that I realised there is no one better suited to this role.”

Tears filled Byleth’s eyes. She quickly turned away to hide them. But Seteth walked beside her as she retraced their steps back towards the monastery entrance.

“You will always put other people before yourself because that is your nature,” he said. “Because of that, I know I cannot stop you from going to Enbarr. I can only advise against it.”

Byleth wiped her eyes before taking Seteth’s hand and squeezing it. He looked shocked by the action, but Byleth didn’t really care.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Seteth released a peculiar snort as he drew his hand free. Byleth dried the last of the tears from her face.

“Is it true His Majesty is leaving tomorrow?” Seteth asked.

The return to honorifics told Byleth that their honest conversation had come to an end. As had her denial of the one detail from her and Dimitri’s conversation she had been trying to forget. Dimitri had promised Felix that he would return within the fortnight. He was unable to stay at Garreg Mach once the funerals, his reason for coming, were over.

That morning the attack’s victims had been buried in the presence of their families, church members, and Dimitri. Custom dictated that at dawn the next day, a final farewell be made and the spirits sent on their way.

After that, Dimitri would depart for Fhirdiad.

“He told me that he must leave after the last rites,” Byleth said.

“Then I suggest you make sure you discuss all the details of your plans before then. Once you are on opposite sides of the continent, it will be harder to communicate.”

Byleth nodded, wishing that idea did not sting so badly.

**II: Cemetery (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Dawn**

Byleth was surprised to discover Sylvain sitting alone on the stairs leading down to the cemetery. By the grey light of dawn, he was studying his hands. The absent-minded action of someone waiting. He spared an occasional glance for the three new graves below, belonging to those of the attack’s victims who had left behind family.

Byleth bit her lip. The stories Dimitri had told her about Sylvain’s actions over the past weeks were difficult to swallow. She could have believed them of Felix, or even Ingrid, but never Sylvain. He was too kind to act so meanly, even in grief. He had proved that the day she recovered consciousness. Then he had been himself, teasing and helping at every opportunity.

Well, Byleth thought, now was the time to see if she could make sense of it. She coughed to alert Sylvain to her presence. He acknowledged it with a short nod before turning his focus to his fingernails.

“Did you know one of the victims?” Byleth asked as she stopped on the step below where Sylvain sat.

Sylvain shook his head.

“But it seems important to be here,” he said. “People should be remembered.”

Byleth hesitated before taking a seat beside him. She was dressed entirely in white, but some things were more important than a dirty dress, even when one was archbishop.

“You still haven’t told me why you came to the monastery,” she said.

Sylvain sighed heavily. Byleth was taken aback by it. She had expected a quip, or at worst outright avoidance.

“He told you to talk to me, didn’t he?” he said.

“He?”

“You know who I mean.”

Byleth did, but she did not think it wise to say so. Sylvain leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and pressing his fingertips together.

“He’s probably told you everything,” he said. “You know I didn’t chose to come here, and that I disgraced myself in front of everyone. Twice.”

“He told me some,” Byleth finally admitted.

“Then I guess he also told you about my father striking me.”

Byleth’s gut twisted. She knew more about Sylvain and the Margrave’s unsteady relationship than most of their acquaintance, but she had never thought the Margrave would go so far. Unsure what else to do, she reached out and squeezed Sylvain’s shoulder. He tensed.

“He did not tell me about that,” she said.

Sylvain looked at Byleth sharply. She knew he was searching desperately for a sign that she was lying.

“Damn it,” he swore when he did not find one. He turned away and closed his eyes. Byleth’s blood boiled to see Sylvain embarrassed over such a thing, but outwardly she remained calm.

“The Margrave is the one in the wrong,” Byleth said.

“I know,” Sylvain said, shrugging her away. “But…shit.”

Byleth broke the contact between them. She had learned long ago there was no benefit in forcing a person to face their troubles. It would be better to give Sylvain time. So she leaned back on her hands, staring up at the moon. It was still visible, although the golden glow of the sun was creeping towards it.

“Do you want to stay at Garreg Mach?” Byleth asked. “If you do not, I know Dimitri would find somewhere else for you to go.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Sylvain said. “That prig is one thing, but my father is another.”

“Do you think you owe him?”

Sylvain laughed. “What was that lesson? Obey your parents? The highest honour for a man is to serve his father?”

“Not when it comes at such a price.”

Sylvain shrugged and kicked at the step below his foot.

“If you do want to stay here, I can find you an occupation,” Byleth offered. “Would you like to help the knights? Or you could help teach at the school. I can think of a few of the children who need a mentor.”

This time Sylvain snorted. Byleth counted it as progress; it was more like Sylvain. But his spoken response marred the victory.

“Do I seem like that type of person to you? Someone to be admired?”

“You fought in the war,” Byleth said. “You defend the border from the Sreng. You are a…”

“Don’t say it,” Sylvain interrupted.

He got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothing, avoiding looking at Byleth.

“Don’t use that word,” he continued. “I’m not a hero. I never was. None of us are.”

“If you…”

“Good morning.”

Byleth did not need to turn to know who had spoken. She would never fail to recognise Dimitri’s voice.

What she did not recognise was the look on Sylvain’s face. His expression darkened, his eyebrows knitting together and his lips twisting as though he had tasted something foul. His eyes glowed with an anger Byleth had never seen him wear even during the worst moments of the war. Beneath it, she recognised a deep and abiding grief. His own fury, as much as Dimitri’s presence, was causing him pain.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri said.

Sylvain abruptly offered Byleth his hand. She took it. He helped her up, then turned his back on Dimitri and led her down the stairs.

At that moment, Byleth understood. She remembered the stabbing hatred she had felt for Monica after her father’s death. An intense, all-consuming emotion from which there was no relief. That was the depth of Sylvain’s grief.

But, unlike Byleth, he could not find relief in the hope for revenge. They would never know who killed Ingrid. The guilty party had no face. So Sylvain had found one in Dimitri. And, in doing so, had trapped himself. Sylvain loved Dimitri, as a brother, a friend, and his king. Byleth knew this as surely as she knew her own name. Revenge was an impossibility, and anger was all that was left.

As they stopped by the graves, Byleth looked back to see Seteth, Cardinal Manfred, and the victims’ families arrive. Dimitri was greeting them. Sylvain released Byleth’s hand and took a step away from her.

“Sylvain?” Byleth said.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

Manfred took his place at the foot of the graves as the sun rose above the horizon. Seteth stood solemnly beside the siblings of the first man killed, while Byleth took her place with a woman who had lost her husband. Opposite, Dimitri kept a similar vigil behind two boys left as orphans. He sought Byleth’s eyes, his expression questioning. Byleth shook her head slightly as Manfred began the ritual.

When the final words were spoken–to the goddess’s care we release them–the widow collapsed with an anguished howl. Byleth fell to her knees, gathering the woman into her arms. Manfred hurried over.

Heavy footsteps startled Byleth. She looked up to see Sylvain striding towards the stairs. He took them two at a time, fleeing the cemetery.

“Manfred,” Byleth whispered urgently, nodding towards Sylvain.

Without a word, Manfred gently took charge of the woman, urging her away from Byleth and over to a bench. Byleth paused only to make sure that everything was under control before chasing Sylvain. Dimitri watched with concern as she left, but with a child under each arm he could not follow.

Sylvain stopped at the bridge to the cathedral. He was stared into the chasm below. Byleth approached slowly, feeling a little frightened.

“Sylvain?” she said.

He laughed and drove a fist against the balustrade.

“Isn’t your flock back there?” he said.

“My friend is here.”

A breath of silence, then Sylvain sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“That. Him. Here.” Sylvain threw his arm widely to gesture the monastery. Then, more quietly, “Just memories.”

He gave no more detail than that, but Byleth could guess. She paused, considering.

“How about you come with me to Enbarr?” she said.

Sylvain blanched and shook his head violently.

“No,” he said. “No, By. I can’t.”

Byleth stepped forward and took his hands.

“I will be right there with you,” she promised.

He shook his head again, eyes closed.

“I need you to do this for me, Sylvain.”

Byleth waited. It took Sylvain a long time to open his eyes, but after he did he squeezed her hands. Byleth smiled. She knew she wouldn’t receive any other reply, but it was enough.

**III: Cardinals’ Room (Garreg Mach Monastery)  
Mid-morning**

Byleth rose from her seat as Dimitri entered, wearing his cloak and with riding gloves in hand. He was due to leave shortly, but would wish to know what had happened with Sylvain, when she would leave for Enbarr, who would continue the investigation into the attack.

Despite the haste he must feel, Dimitri paused to thank the cleric who attended the door. Byleth’s heart ached to witness the kind smile he gave Rosa, the longing for it to be turned on herself a bitter jealousy.

“That’s all for now, Rosa,” Byleth said as Dimitri finished speaking to her.

Rosa bowed and stepped out of the room, closing the door.

Dimitri strode across the room towards Byleth. His whole manner spoke of haste. Dedue and his retinue must be waiting at the gate, eager to leave. They only had a few minutes, but so much to discuss.

“I’m sorry we had to meet here,” Byleth said, feeling the contentment of the previous day dissipate. “The cardinals have urgent matters for me to consider before I go to Enbarr.”

She gestured to the papers that she was sorting through. Dimitri smiled wryly.

“Surely all of these urgent matters existed yesterday and the day before,” he said.

“I’m sure they did,” Byleth agreed. “Regardless, they have only felt the need to bring them to my attention now.”

Dimitri twisted his gloves in his hands, then gestured for Byleth to sit. She did. He turned the chair beside her so that they could face each other.

“Sylvain?” he asked.

“He will come with me to Enbarr,” Byleth said.

Dimitri sighed in relief. “I was worried after what happened at the ritual.”

“I think going back to where it happened will help,” Byleth said. “At least, I hope it will.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Byleth.”

“It is nothing.”

There was a silence. By the clock in the corner, Byleth counted a precious minute of their time tick away before she found something to say.

“Will you take the relay back to Fhirdiad?” she asked.

Dimitri shook his head.

“I will be able to keep my promise to Felix without it. And I think…well, Dedue thinks that a more leisurely ride would do me good.”

“Dedue suggested you spend longer on horseback?” Byleth asked with a disbelieving laugh.

“I believe he prefers the slower pace,” Dimitri said. “In this case, he is probably using me as an excuse.”

The clock chimed. Dimitri threw an accusatory look at it.

“I cannot…I should not keep them waiting,” he said.

But he did not stand.

“Seteth admitted that he is worried about me going to Enbarr,” Byleth said. Partly because she thought Dimitri would wish know, and partly because with his departure imminent, she felt desperate to delay it.

“If you are taking Sylvain I’ve no doubt you’ll be safe,” Dimitri replied.

“I can defend myself,” Byleth protested. “I am the Ashen Demon.”

Dimitri laughed. “It’s been an age since I heard that name.”

“It’s been an age since I used it.”

“I’m sure no one has forgotten.” Dimitri lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “All the same, promise you’ll take care of yourself. If anything were to happen to you, especially while you were rushing around on a mission of my giving, I…”

He stopped. Byleth had a horrible flashback to the moment in her bedroom when he had fled. As though she had predicted it, Dimitri stood, pushing his chair back.

“I truly must go,” he said.

Byleth jumped to her feet. They had discussed barely a thing. She needed to something say. She needed more time. She needed _him_.

“Kiss me,” Byleth said.

Dimitri froze, staring at her, his lips parted. Byleth wrung her hands together and took a step closer to him. The words had been the second phrase that came to mind, but safer than the first.

“Kiss me,” she repeated.

Dimitri cleared his throat.

“Byleth, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

He was probably right. But Byleth was committed. She stood her ground, summoning all of the courage of the Ashen Demon and facing her worst nightmares.

“Have things changed?” she asked.

Dimitri looked away. It was her nightmare, then. She could dismiss the rejection when he had carried her up the stairs to her room as an accident. But there was no mistaking this.

Byleth backed away. She was stopped by Dimitri’s hands grabbing her upper arms. Stunned, she looked up. He studied her for a long second, then he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Keep safe, Byleth,” he whispered.

Byleth slipped a hand into his hair, preventing him from drawing away. She stood on her toes and found his lips with hers.

It was brief, everything that Byleth wanted, and not enough. Dimitri did not allow it to go further than the brush of their lips. He pulled back and held her at arm’s length. Strong as he was, she could not fight him.

“Byleth…” Dimitri shook his head. A faint blush had appeared on his cheeks. “I cannot.”

Byleth’s mind jumped to Marianne. Not because of her exactly, the knowledge about her feelings for Dimitri, but because of what she represented. Another woman, an opportunity for Dimitri to marry without the burden of being compromised.

He could not.

Byleth’s chest ached.

Before she could embarrass herself further, she pulled out of Dimitri’s hold and dropped back onto her chair. She picked up her pen and stared at the paper on top of the pile. A proposal for an expansion to the monastery’s orphanage.

“Byleth…” Dimitri said.

“I will write to you from Enbarr,” Byleth interrupted.

She circled a phrase on the proposal and made a note in the margin.

For a long time, the only sound was the tick of the clock in the corner. Then the heartbreakingly familiar sound of Dimitri’s footsteps. Always walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us to the end of what I consider the first act.


	18. A Fall of Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the journey home to Fhirdiad, Dimitri struggles with regret.

**I: Shy Wyvern Inn (Road to Fhirdiad)  
Afternoon**

The storm caught Dimitri a mile from the Shy Wyvern Inn. Patches of rain had warned him of its approach, but when it struck it was worse than expected. The road grew difficult to navigate. Resigning himself to wet clothing and a delayed arrival, Dimitri urged his stallion, Axel, to slow down.

By the time they entered the Wyvern’s yard, Dimitri was chilled to the bone. He slid from the saddle with none of his usual skill. At the same moment, the door of the inn flew open and Horace, the innkeeper, raced outside.

“Your Majesty!”

Horace neglected the required bow in favour of sheltering Dimitri with the umbrella he carried. It would do little good, but Dimitri decided not to point that out.

“Good day, Horace,” he said. “You needn’t have come outside in this.”

“Bullocks. But I wasn’t expecting you yet,” Horace said. “The harbinger only arrived a half hour ago and the rooms aren’t ready. Sire.”

Dimitri smiled. The honorific was spoken as an afterthought. Horace showed the same care for every guest regardless of their station, which caused him to frequently forget social rules. Dimitri valued that, knowing it marked a man of true kindness. Kindness Dimitri had experienced as both a king and as a starved fugitive.

“Take your time,” Dimitri said. “I’ll tend to Axel.”

“No, I’ll call a stableboy!”

“Let me tend my horse. He carried me all this way.”

Horace grimaced his disapproval before peering down the road.

“But where are your companions?” he asked. “The harbinger said a party of eight.”

Dimitri patted Axel’s nose, trying to decide what answer would elicit the least number of questions.

“I rode ahead,” he chose.

Horace’s owlish brow knitted together. “Alone?”

Dimitri shrugged as he tugged on Axel’s reins. Horace skipped a few steps towards the stables, guessing his intention.

“Let me take you,” he said.

“I know the way.”

Horace looked over him from head to toe. “At least put some dry clothes on first.”

“It makes little sense to change now,” Dimitri said.

From Horace’s frown, one would think that wet clothing was equivalent to an open wound. Dimitri sighed and offered a compromise.

“Do you have mulled wine?” he asked. “I’d appreciate something warm when I’m done.”

Horace nodded. “I’ll prepare it and some vittles.”

The umbrella followed Dimitri as he headed towards the stable. He stopped and gently pushed Horace’s arm away.

“I’m already drenched,” he said. “Keep it for yourself.”

Horace snorted, but bowed and ran back to the inn.

The Shy Wyvern was the best inn along the road to Garreg Mach, its reputation established in Dimitri's father’s time. With work funded by the coin of pilgrims, the stables could now boast the same. They were large, with sheltered work spaces and a pen for exercising horses. The stalls were even heated, overshadowing Dimitri’s own stables in Fhirdiad.

“You’ll be in luxury here,” Dimitri said to Axel, leading him under one of the shelters.

When lifting the saddle from Axel’s back, Dimitri noticed the leather was soaked through. It would need quick attention to be saved. But that was work that could be left to the stableboy, if only because Dimitri’s shoulders ached and he could not bear the thought of leaning over it for an hour. He slung the saddle over a nearby rack before turning back to his horse.

As one of the stallions kept for the relay, Axel was well cared for and knew how to behave. It made tending to him an easy task. Nonetheless, Dimitri was meticulous in his work. Concentrating on one thing kept other thoughts at bay. Thoughts he had hoped would be lost in the wind, but instead seemed frozen in place by the storm.

Forty minutes later, with the saddle entrusted to a stableboy and Axel to a stall, Dimitri entered the yard to find there was no sign of Dedue, Adele, or the soldiers who had accompanied him to the monastery. Dimitri wondered if they had taken refuge from the storm. But then, he could say without shame that he was a better rider than anyone in his retinue. With an hour’s advantage, they had little hope of catching him easily. Dimitri had known that when he snuck out. It had not been the kindest thing to do, especially to Dedue, but he had needed the time to himself.

When he opened the inn’s door, Dimitri knew that time was at an end. Horace ushered him into the main hall, where nearly a score guests were scattered over games of dice or cards. Some, those in finer clothing, were reading. The smell of stew revealed that the kitchen stove was still lit for lunch.

Curiously, Dimitri found he was not tempted by the scent. He was turning to tell Horace such when a clatter startled him. A few feet away, Peta, his harbinger, stumbled to his feet.

“Your Majesty,” he said, falling to knee. “Can I be of assistance?’

All prospects of anonymity vanished. It was a difficult feat in any case; Dimitri had lost the ability to blend into a crowd along with the sight in his right eye. But he had hoped.

He saw the whisper pass through the hall. People rose to their feet one by one. Dimitri nodded to acknowledge the gesture while turning towards Peta, hoping to discourage anyone from approaching him.

“Finish your meal,” he said. “You must be tired.”

“Not at all, sire,” Peta said. He was still a squire and eager to please. But when he looked up, Dimitri saw the grey circles under his eyes, evidence of his pre-dawn departure from the White Flower Inn.

“Rest,” he insisted. “You’ll ride out early again tomorrow.”

Peta hesitated, but a glance at his half-consumed meal drew him back to his seat.

“Sire,” Horace said, “I have found some dry clothes for you. Follow me.”

The innkeeper led Dimitri through the hall. Dimitri avoided eye contact with the guests, but felt their gazes all the same. They were unyielding.

“Dailia has prepared one of our best rooms,” Horace said as they climbed the stairs. “Here is the key.”

At the Shy Wyvern, best meant a room with a north-facing window, furnished to capacity with a canopied bed, trunk, and side table. The bedding was freshly turned and a vase of camellias sat on the windowsill. Dimitri felt an immediate sense of safety as he entered it and wondered if it would be impolite to remain hidden upstairs.

“When you come downstairs I’ll have food and wine ready,” Horace said, answering that question.

“Of course,” he replied.

Dimitri picked up the shirt that had been left on the bed along with trousers and stockings. He guessed they belonged to Horace’s son, since it looked about the right size for his own six feet. Horace retreated back out the door.

“Take your time,” he said, closing it behind him.

His footsteps clambered down the hall.

Dimitri stripped and donned the clean clothing, revelling in the luxury of it. The war was not so long past that he had forgotten what it was like to wear the same things for days on end, regardless of heat or rain. His life on the run, eking out a living in the dark, was just as fresh in his memory. At that time, he had bathed in his clothes, unable to risk removing them in case he had to flee. They had dried on his back.

Until Byleth had found him.

Dimitri dropped onto the bed and tugged a stocking over his foot. Everything led to Byleth. No memory or place or even thing was safe. The day before it had been the forest. Today, the clouds that rolled in with the rain, the same shade as her hair before her revelation. Beneath it all, the twinge in his ear made him wonder if she was fully recovered from her ordeal.

Stockings in place, Dimitri threw himself back on the bed and stared up at the canopy. The curtains were the same colour as the ones above Byleth’s bed.

He began to laugh.

What had he done? The urge to turn back to Garreg Mach flared stronger. He could be at the monastery in a day if he pushed. Byleth would be waiting…on the Star Terrace, or in the gardens, or even the cathedral. It didn’t matter where. He would run to her, gather her in his arms, and apologise. And he would kiss her. By the goddess, he would kiss her.

The daydream was interrupted by the door slamming against the wall.

“What were you thinking?”

Reality crashed into place. Dimitri sat up as Dedue burst into the room, breathing heavily, his clothes dripping rainwater.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri said, familiar guilt balling in his chest. “I needed to clear my mind.”

Dedue considered Dimitri a moment, then shook his head.

“I knew something was troubling you. Something happened the day we left Garreg Mach. But I did not realise it was that serious,” he said.

Dimitri found himself annoyed that Dedue had noticed. He also knew from experience that if not stopped, his friend would poke at the wound until it bled. So Dimitri stood and pushed his feet into the house slippers near the door.

“Horace promised stew and mulled wine,” he said, putting a hand on Dedue’s shoulder to guide him out of the room. “You should change and join me.”

**II: Evening**

The rain kept everyone inside for the rest of the day, trapping Dimitri under the constant scrutiny of the other guests. It made him long for the road, even in a storm. People watched while he dined with his retinue and discussed plans for council meetings with Adele. They clicked their tongues when Dedue trumped him at cards. Eyes even followed when he tried to sneak away to the privy.

All the while, Dimitri felt as though his head was being slowly squeezed in a vice. The twinge in his ear had sharpened like a needle was being pressed into it. He felt cold, despite the fires burning in the hearths at each end of the hall.

It was sometime during the third hour of this torture that Dedue abandoned his beer and loomed over the boy sitting beside Dimitri, as he observed a card game. Eventually, the boy caught fear and fled. Dedue took the vacated chair and pretended to be interested in the game’s progress.

“Your Majesty,” he said, leaning closer, “you look unwell.”

“It’s lack of sleep,” Dimitri replied with a wave of his hand.

“Regardless of the cause, you need rest.”

The people seated nearby were listening. Dimitri could see it in their tense postures, though their eyes never betrayed them by drifting in his direction.

“We have a long ride tomorrow,” Dedue said. “An early night would be beneficial.”

Dimitri nodded carefully, his head throbbing with the movement.

“You are right,” he said.

The game paused while Dimitri rose. A hush spread throughout the hall as he moved towards the stairs. For the first time, he understood why his father had always requested inns be emptied before his arrival. But Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to demand that. How could he think himself entitled to such a thing, consider himself better than anyone else?

Horace appeared, forcing Dimitri to stop on the first step.

“Can I bring you anything?” he asked.

Dedue cut between them.

“Chamomile tea and some ginger,” he said.

“Thank you, Horace,” Dimitri added.

The innkeeper nodded and disappeared to the kitchen. Dimitri continued up the stairs, holding tightly to the rail and wondering how Dedue had known he was feeling nauseous as well.

Once safe in his room, Dimitri fell onto the bed and leaned forward, his forehead almost touching his knees. For some reason, it helped ease the symptoms.

“You have not had a headache this bad for some time,” Dedue said, footsteps heavy as he crossed the room towards the window. Dimitri heard the sound of curtains being drawn and then a tinder being struck.

“The ride has exhausted me,” he said.

There was a long pause before Dedue replied, “If you say so.”

They had known each other too long for Dedue to be tricked. It was unfortunate, but there was nothing Dimitri could do about it. So he continued with the act, straightening and removing his eye patch as Dedue lit the candles around the room.

“The wine was good,” Dimitri commented as he lifted his foot over his knee and pulled off his slipper. He couldn’t comment on the stew. Apart from not being able to taste it, he had only managed two bites.

Dedue grunted in response at the same moment Horace arrived with the tea. Rather than allowing him to enter, Dedue took the tray, placed it on the side table, and bullied the innkeeper away. That was when Dimitri knew the mother hen had returned. Only decisive and quick action would remove him from the room.

“Here is the ginger,” Dedue said, lifting the lid of a small sweet jar and presenting it to Dimitri. Dimitri took one of the lumps of spice and chewed on it.

“You should rest as well,” he suggested. “The ride was probably harder on you than it was on me.”

Dedue grimaced. Dimitri stood and grabbed the teapot before he could use serving the tea as an excuse to linger.

“I will not be able to sleep with you hovering,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “Go.”

Dedue’s reluctance was clear, but he had little choice. Dimitri refused to feel bad as he locked the door after him. It was necessary for his own sanity.

Leaving the tea where it was, Dimitri lay down on the bed. Doing so eased the pain in his head, but awoke other ones throughout his body. He shifted, but could not get comfortable. Finally, he gave up, accepting the cramps in his back and heaviness in his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.

Arrangements for an audience with Viscount Lucas would have to be made upon his arrival in Fhirdiad. And Holst needed to be knighted according to Faerghus’s traditions. The Alliance’s system of knighthood had become obsolete when Dimitri was crowned. It was foolish to have such a capable warrior bearing no rank.

He would write to Byleth. Surely he could explain himself in a letter.

If none of the nobility had left Fhirdiad, Dimitri would have to host dinners and parties to make up for his absence. The idea was sickening.

He wondered if those boys who lost their mother in the attack would stay at the monastery.

Byleth would understand. She had asked him to kiss her. Surely that meant she knew he loved her. And that she loved him. She was not the type to ask a man to kiss her without reason. Seiros, why hadn’t he kissed her back?

It felt like a blacksmith had opened shop in his head. Dimitri rolled onto his side. His left hand had pins and needles again, just to make things worse.

Manfred frowned at him. “You must choose. Your own desires or the future of Fódlan.”

He wanted to marry Byleth. But that made him a bad king.

“Your Majesty?”

Dimitri groaned and forced his eyes open. He saw people crowded near his bed. Dedue and Dailia. Horace. How had they gotten in?

Of course. Horace had a second key.

“What’s wrong?” Dimitri asked.

Dedue pressed his hand against Dimitri’s forehead.

“He’s feverish,” he said to Dailia.

Dailia pushed Dedue aside and held her hand where his had been. She bit her lip.

“I’ll brew ginger and clove tea,” she said. “I should have guessed he was ill. He ate barely a bite.”

“I don’t want anything,” Dimitri said, feeling the need to make his desires known. “I’m not sick. Just tired.”

Dedue, Dailia, and Horace all looked at him critically. Dimitri tried to get up, to prove his point, but his limbs would not obey him.

“I’ll bring the tea,” Dailia said firmly.

“Let me help you under the blankets,” Horace said.

Dimitri discovered, to his confusion, that he was indeed lying on top of the bedding.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Near midnight,” Dedue answered. “You yelled out in your sleep. Gave the other guests quite a scare.”

Oh goddess, Dimitri thought as Horace helped him off the bed. Let him have shouted nonsense and not Byleth’s name.

**III: Early Morning **

Dimitri’s throat was like glasspaper. Everything _hurt_.

“Your Majesty.”

He hated those words. They evoked unease and dread. Recalled promises he could not keep. But they were so intertwined with his soul that he opened his eyes, his mind slipping into the emptiness that allowed him to survive.

Adele was standing by the bed with a teacup in her hand.

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri asked, his voice grating against the dryness in his mouth.

“I sent them downstairs for rest,” she said, as though Dimitri was supposed to know who they were. “Your fever broke a little while ago. You should drink this tea.”

Dimitri nodded and pushed himself up. His arms felt weak, something he was not accustomed to and did not like.

“What’s the time?” he asked after a sip of the tea. It was hot and soothed his throat.

“Near dawn.”

“Has Peta left?”

Adele frowned.

“We thought it would be better to remain here,” she said. “You were very ill.”

Dimitri drank the tea, using it as an excuse to delay his response. Staying at the Shy Wyvern was by equal turns attractive and distressing. Attractive because all the problems that awaited him in Fhirdiad would be delayed. Almost as long as he wanted. Everyone knew how hard he had worked leading up to Founding Day, so no one would argue that he didn’t deserve a rest. And there were enough witnesses to the fact that he had fallen ill.

But he would be confined to bed. With nothing to fill his time or distract him, from the things that, even awake, were circling in his mind. From the worries of the future. From Byleth.

Dimitri passed the empty cup to Adele.

“We cannot stay,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor. The stone was cold under his feet, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the hefty pile of blankets he had slept under. “I’m needed in Fhirdiad. I promised Felix I wouldn’t be away long.”

“If Duke Fraldarius can take care of things for a fortnight, he can manage for an extra day or two.”

That made Dimitri smile.

“I’m guessing you aren’t well acquainted with Felix,” he said.

Adele crossed her arms.

“If my wife can last another day with our children, the duke can last one more with the nobles,” she argued.

Dimitri was certain that three children, even ones as wild as Adele’s, were immeasurably preferable to the court.

“You know I did not leave things in a good place,” Dimitri said. “I need to get home. Calm the council. Ensure the new tenant laws pass.”

“You cannot do that in your current state.”

“I must.”

“Dimitri.”

Adele jumped as Dedue joined the conversation. Neither of them had been looking in the direction of the door, and so had not seen him arrive. But he was leaning on the doorframe, watching them critically. Dimitri noted the dishevelled state of Dedue’s clothes and realised he was one of the “them” Adele had mentioned. A “them” who had not slept.

“Will you not consider your health this once?” Dedue asked.

“Ask Horace if we can borrow one of the inn’s carriages, and I will see Timoth when we arrive in Fhirdiad,” Dimitri said. “But we must leave today.”

“Dedue,” Adele said, stepping towards him, “you must help me convince…”

“Adele,” Dedue interrupted, “will you ask Horace to prepare a carriage?”

Adele looked from Dedue to Dimitri, her lips pursed. She would never take orders from one of Dimitri’s retainers.

“I’m sorry, Adele,” Dimitri said. “Please speak to Horace.”

She muttered something to herself, but nodded and left the room.

Dimitri pressed his hands against the mattress. As he pushed himself to his feet, a pain shot through his skull, causing him to lurch forward. He grabbed the bedpost for balance. His legs felt like jelly, but he knew if he remained still for just a moment he would be able to stand without support.

When Dimitri looked up, he saw Dedue glowering at him. Dedue was willing to let him have his way, but definitely shared Adele’s opinion.

“I’ll be fine,” Dimitri said, trying to preclude argument.

Dedue was not daunted.

“You say that as the man who was worried Byleth resumed her duties too soon after three days’ bedrest,” he said. “If Annette does not drive me to an early grave with her escapades, then I am certain you will manage the task quite effectively. Is returning to Fhirdiad really so necessary?”

The floor had stopped tilting beneath him. Dimitri tentatively released the bedpost. He did not fall over and counted that as a victory.

“I am needed in Fhirdiad,” he said.

Dedue shook his head.

“I will ride with you in the carriage,” he said decisively.

There was no way to avoid it, so Dimitri stayed silent and prayed that Dedue would not pursue an interrogation. Fortunately, he fell asleep soon after they pulled out of the Shy Wyvern’s yard, leaving Dimitri to watch the passing landscape with his thoughts as company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always for the kudos and comments. I love hearing people's thoughts on the story.
> 
> The next chapter will be a slight detour to some characters we haven't seen for a little while. It should be posted soon!


	19. Things Long Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix decides to right an injustice. Past wrongs haunt Annette.

**I: Garreg Mach Monastery | Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1186**   
**Noon**

“Annie?”

At the sound of her name, Annette’s mind returned from where it wandered a thousand miles away. Her friends had finished their meals, but her own plate remained piled with food. Mercedes was frowning at her.

“Annie, are you feeling unwell?” Mercedes asked. “You look very pale.”

Annette forced a smile and dug her fork into her food.

“Not at all,” she said. “I suppose I stayed up too late last night practising the spell the professor showed me.”

“Are you worried about Felix?”

It was a sensible guess. Since coming to Garreg Mach, he had entered into a gloom. Annette missed the person she had spent months with in Charon. There, defending the city against the Imperial army had given Felix a chance to show his mettle. He had thrived. Now, Annette knew he felt stifled. He spent all his time in his room or at the training grounds, emerging only when the professor had a task for him.

Rodrigue’s arrival had added more stress to the mix. Particularly because, in the three weeks since Ailell, he and Annette’s father had grown friendly, anticipating their children’s imminent betrothal. Felix, for his part, had told Annette that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry her, eventually, but some things shouldn’t be done during a war.

Thinking about what Felix had said didn’t help.

Annette put her fork into her mouth and choked. She had gathered too much food on it.

“I guess you are concerned about him,” Mercedes sighed, patting Annette on the back.

Annette did not contradict her. Some worries were too difficult to share, even with a friend as magnificent as Mercedes.

“Regardless, you really do not look well,” Mercedes continued. “Perhaps I should take over clean-up for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Annette said. “You’re expected at the healing ward.”

Mercedes did not look convinced.

“Then why not ask Felix? He would do anything for you.”

Annette shook her head. “I don’t want to bother him. I’m fine, Mercie.”

Mercedes laced her fingers together, a suspicious look in her eyes.

“Okay then,” she said, “but if you feel at all peculiar, please stop by the hospital.”

The kitchen’s causalities were significant that afternoon. Annette broke four ceramic plates while washing the dishes. She spilt a bucket of suds right across the newly cleaned dining room floor. After she shattered a crystal decanter (which Annette was certain was not supposed to be out, let alone under her care), the kitchen master sent her away, saying it would be more helpful if she left it rather than cleaning up.

Annette knew she needed to find Felix and speak to him. He was the reason she was so at odds. At the same time, speaking to him was the thing that frightened her the most.

Frustrated at herself, Annette went to the place behind the greenhouse where she and Felix often met. She sat down on the bench there and stared at the honeysuckle vine that grew over the greenhouse wall. It was dotted with little buds. Annette almost wished she could stop them from blooming, keep them safely hidden away from all the things going wrong in the world.

What a horrible thought. Better to think up a song about the flowers. Something cheerful and hopeful.

The words wouldn’t come.

At dinner time, after Annette’s disquiet had dragged her pointlessly through the greenhouse, the market, and her bedroom, she made her way back to the dining hall. She knew Felix wouldn’t be there. But she needed just a moment, one more minute of delaying the inevitable.

Annette approached Sylvain without greeting anyone, hoping to avoid attention. But Mercedes saw her and raised her hand. Annette ignored her.

“Have you seen Felix?” she asked Sylvain quietly.

“Lost your boyfriend?” Sylvain replied, much louder than Annette liked. She curled her fingers into her palms and tried to smile, like it was nothing. Instead, her eyes filled with tears.

Sylvain dropped his fork, mouth gaping. Mercedes rounded the table to hug Annette.

“Annie, what’s wrong?” Mercedes asked.

“Please, Sylvain,” Annette said, shrugging Mercedes away, “when did you last see him?”

“I haven’t seen him today,” Sylvain said. “So I guess try his room?”

“Thank you,” Annette said.

She fled the dining hall as quickly as she could, before her father could see her face.

The dormitory’s second floor was quiet. Everyone was at the dining hall or in the gardens, taking advantage of the lengthening days. Except the professor and Dimitri. They put Annette’s struggles into perspective. It was clear that Dimitri had been through hell, and the professor was desperately trying to save him. There were worse things than what she was going through. There were definitely worse things.

Annette knocked on Felix’s door.

“Who is it?”

The question was curt. Felix probably thought it was someone trying to help his father. It never occurred to him that Rodrigue knew exactly where he was hiding. He sent others because of the reaction his own presence would incite. Rodrigue cared far more about Felix than he realised.

“It’s me,” Annette called.

Within moments, she heard the lock click. Felix opened the door cautiously, glancing down the hall.

“Just you?” he said.

His suspicion broke Annette, and she snapped, “No, I’ve your father and Dimitri both hiding under my skirts.”

She regretted the outburst immediately. Felix stared at her, clearly stricken by her response.

“Nettie, are you sick?” he asked.

Before Annette could shake her head or apologise, Felix pulled her into his room. He herded her to the bed, forced her to sit down, and wrapped his coat around her shoulders.

“I’m not sick,” Annette said as he poured a cup of water.

“You look sick,” he replied.

Felix thrust the cup into her hand. He was always so awkward when he tried to take care of her. As though he was unsure what to do, even after five years with her. Was it because they had spent so much time apart? Would it always be like this? Could she bear it?

The tears finally broke free.

“Whoa!” Felix fell to his knees in front of her. “Annette?”

Annette leaned over to put the cup of water on the bedside table, gurgles and sobs escaping in an embarrassing cacophony. She drew her legs onto the bed, facing away from Felix, and wiped furiously at her eyes.

“Don’t cry, Nettie,” Felix said, moving onto the bed and hugging her from behind.

“It’s, um,” Annette said between hiccups, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.”

Felix took hold of her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

“Then why didn’t you?” he asked.

“I wanted you to come talk to me!”

It was a stupid thing to say, Annette knew. Felix’s mouth twisted in frustration.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he said.

Annette removed his hands from her shoulders, feeling strangely burdened by his touch.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

Annette shook her head. “I’m scared to.”

“Of me?”

“No. Other things.”

Felix sighed. “Nettie,” he said, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. But I want to help.”

Annette closed her eyes and took four deep breaths. When she opened them again, Felix was sitting there, waiting. Like he had five years earlier when he asked her to sing. Annette’s heart began to beat faster.

“Felix,” she said, “I think I’m pregnant.”

**II: Government Offices, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad) | Red Wolf Moon, Year 1187**   
**Late Morning**

Felix had thought that Dimitri’s departure for Garreg Mach would prompt an emptying of the castle’s guest quarters. He was wrong. Curiosity kept all in Fhirdiad awaiting the king’s return, which (not that anyone was counting) was due in six days at the most.

Six more days of hell. Usually when acting as Dimitri’s surrogate, Felix was kept busy with urgent petitions, running the castle, and preparations for council. Useful work. This time, his sole reason for existence was to provide entertainment for fidgety nobles. Games of charades, shopping expeditions, and improvised jousting tournaments. An endless procession of flirting women.

Evangeline had noticed Felix’s growing frustration. In her way, she had tried to help. Spending an evening hiding in his mother’s quarters had held promise as a comparatively peaceful, if unusual, treatment. And it had been—until Evangeline started detailing her plans to renovate the duchess’s suite at House Fraldarius. It was not the first time since his father’s death that she had toyed with the idea, nor was Felix ignorant of its meaning. She was anticipating an event he was not planning to organise any time soon, no matter how many candidates found their way to him, bearing a poorly disguised entreaty.

As Felix made his way to his office the next day, he hoped that no such candidates appeared at his door that morning. He had managed to cry off all appointments to deal with a real problem and he did not want any interruptions.

His mind focused on the meeting to come, Felix was almost too slow to react when he tripped in the corridor near his office. He threw his arm out, hand finding purchase on the uneven stone wall and thankfully preventing a fall.

“My lord!”

A messenger boy sprinted towards him, shoving the note he carried into his tunic as he reached out to help.

“I’m fine,” Felix said, straightening and waving the boy away.

He searched for the object on which he had slipped. It was a small fabric purse, that had skid across the floor to stop in front of Felix’s office door. He crouched down and picked it up. Turning it in his hand, he discovered a purple flower embroidered on the underside.

“Are you sure you’re okay, my lord?” the messenger boy said.

“Yes, get going,” Felix said.

The messenger boy scurried away as Felix entered his office. He threw the purse onto the desk. It must belong to a noblewoman, he thought as he removed his jacket. No servant girl would have a purse made of silk. So one of the candidates had already stopped by that morning.

“Your Grace.”

At the mere sound of his guest’s voice, Felix’s shoulders tensed. He looked up. Loog stood to attention in the doorway, hands behind his back, feet in perfect formation. A single stripe adorned the shoulder of his uniform, marking a staff sergeant. The man didn’t deserve a rank even that low.

Felix could not erase the image of Loog harassing Annette from his mind. He saw red when he thought of how the bastard had grabbed her arm, called her names and spoken of her like she was an animal. Only Annette’s insistence had stopped Felix teaching him a lesson in front of the entire market.

In the days since, the incident had weighed on Felix’s mind. Every moment not devoted to supporting Dimitri had been spent reflecting on the knowledge that Annette was enduring such treatment. He could not comprehend how Dedue did not know. Was the man such a fool that he thought Dimitri’s coronation had meant the end of the trouble between Faerghus and Duscur? Or was he wilfully blind?

Regardless, Felix could not allow it to continue. To that end, he had spent some time gathering information about Loog.

Felix gestured to the seat in front of his desk. Loog entered the room, every inch a soldier, and waited until Felix was seated before perching on the indicated chair.

“To what honour do I owe this invitation?” Loog asked.

“To receive this,” Felix said, holding out an envelope.

Loog frowned, but stood and bowed to take it in the proper manner of a soldier receiving orders. Felix wondered if he realised why he had been summoned. Surely he didn’t think it was for any good reason. Even if the fool hadn’t known who Felix was that day in the market, he must have recognised him when he stepped up to the door.

Felix waited while Loog retook his seat, broke the envelope’s seal, and unfolded the paper inside. He enjoyed watching as the snake’s eyes travel across the lines of writing, his brow furrowing further with each word. Finally, Loog looked up at Felix with disbelief and anger.

“What is this, sir?” he asked.

“Your discharge papers,” Felix replied. He picked up one of the household accounts. Nothing important, but he wanted Loog to think that the whole situation was beneath his notice. “As per the normal procedure, you will return your uniform to the barracks and leave the castle grounds immediately.”

“On what basis, sir?”

Felix met Loog’s eyes. The disbelief was dissolving, pure fury rising in its place.

“It says on the papers,” Felix said.

Loog jabbed a finger at them.

“It says I’ve been dishonourably discharged,” he said. “That cannot be the case, sir, because I’ve obeyed every rule in all my time here, sir.”

“Yet here we are.”

Loog swung to his feet. “I do not understand what you mean, sir.”

Each repetition of the word “sir” was more furious in tone. Felix was not above admitting to himself that he relished hearing it. He leaned back in his chair, determined to enjoy the next few minutes just as thoroughly.

“You have followed the rules, yet seem to have missed their main premise,” he said. “No soldier of Faerghus, a nation built on honour, would think it permissible to go into the streets and target a person, or those associated with them, on the basis of their heritage.”

Felix had not expected Loog to laugh. But he did, a harsh bark as he threw the discharge papers onto the floor.

“This is about that bitch,” he spat.

Felix stood, noticing wistfully that he was a few inches shorter than Loog.

“You would do well to watch your tongue,” he said.

Loog crossed his arms. “You don’t have the power to do this. I’m one of the king’s personal guard.”

“I assure you, I do have the power,” Felix said. “I am Duke Fraldarius. That title is second only to the king and his family. I am charged with ensuring the king’s safety. In this case, I deem it a danger for you to remain in his service.”

“A danger? That dog is the real problem. His Majesty would do well to remember it. People don’t like the king keeping one of those pigs. He’ll regret it. Just like that bitch will regret her pup.”

Felix rounded the desk, disregarding the few inches. He would best Loog in a fight, after all.

“Take care,” he growled. “These people are honoured friends of the king who performed great deeds during the war. You’re from Charon, aren’t you? Have you forgotten that Annette Dominic held the city wall against the Empire’s armies?”

Loog frowned. “That’s who she is? I thought she was just some mage who married a cur.”

His reaction caused Felix to take a step back. Hadn’t he known who Annette was?

“But of course I remember,” Loog said. “Everyone in the city knew about the great commanders who saved us, Dominic and Fraldarius. But you weren’t just commanders-in-arms. You were screwing her.”

Felix’s blood ran cold.

“The whole city knew,” Loog laughed. “Does the dog know?”

Felix spun away.

“Get out,” he said. “You’re no longer permitted on castle grounds.”

“She must be something,” Loog said appreciatively. To Felix’s surprise, he grabbed the discharge papers from the floor and headed towards the door, pausing on the threshold to look back. “If everyone from the dogs of Duscur to the mighty lords of the land thirst for her.”

**III: Fhirdiad**   
**Noon**

When Annette watched Dedue ride away to Garreg Mach on Founding Day, she had realised that it was the first time in their marriage that they would be separated. On every other occasion Dedue had accompanied Dimitri on a trip, Annette had tagged along. But travelling by the royal relay was not advised for a woman in her fourth month of pregnancy, and so Annette had been forced to stay behind.

Not that she was left to boredom. There was plenty to be done. Classes at the Royal School of Sorcery were larger than ever before. Her father wanted her help to choose a birthday present for her mother. And, of course, there was the baby to prepare for. Annette had decided to get a start on making the diapers. Her fingers were riddled with stab wounds sustained from her efforts. Sewing was going to take a bit more work to master.

But at the end of the day, Annette had no one to tell her stories of success or hopeless failure. She had not noticed how much she had come to depend on Dedue, how accustomed she was to seeing him every day. She missed him.

As the day of his return drew closer, Annette decided to try her hand at making the spicy fish and turnip stew that they had both enjoyed at the monastery. A welcome home treat. She had a few days to get the recipe right.

On her way home after school, she took a detour to the food market to collect the ingredients. She hummed a song to herself, one that recited the steps she would take to prepare the dish. She would start the moment she got home, and while the stew was boiling, she could try and hem the diaper…

Annette froze. Ahead, a familiar figure pushed away from the wall of an apartment building.

“Hey!” Loog called, striding towards her.

Annette turned on her heel, mapping out another route in her head. One that would take her down more populated streets.

“Are you walking away from me?”

She increased her pace. But Loog had longer legs and within a few moments he was walking by her side.

“I have no business with you,” Annette said, staring straight ahead.

“You don’t?”

Annette could not imagine what he was talking about. She kept walking, hoping he would leave her alone when they reached a main road. There were more people around now, men and women finishing their day’s chores.

“Do you think your new protector gives you immunity?”

Annette stopped. She glanced around, noting a grandmother sitting on her doorstep, peeling vegetables. Loog was a fool, but not idiot enough to attack her in front of witnesses. She turned slightly towards him.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Loog dug his heels into the ground and crossed his arms. He was standing too close, but Annette didn’t dare back away.

“I guess you two have a lot more in common than I thought,” he said.

Annette lifted her eyes to his, her stomach churning.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Loog raised his eyebrows. “You don’t? Let me make it clear.”

He wrenched a folded envelope out of his pocket, forcing Annette to stumble backwards to avoid being hit. She recognised the seal of the commander of the king’s guard as he held it out to her. Dedue sometimes brought correspondence from the commander home.

Annette hesitated, but took the envelope. Inside she found discharge papers. The details escaped her, her attention immediately caught by a stamp at the bottom. Another symbol she recognised. The Crest of Fraldarius.

“The prick who challenged me in the marketplace,” Loog said with pure derision. “He thinks he can throw me out while His Majesty’s at play? We’ll see who’s dismissed when the king gets back.”

Loog’s threat meant nothing to Annette. The moment Felix marked the discharge, Loog had lost any chance of an audience with Dimitri. But the longer Annette stared at the stamp, the angrier she felt. What was Felix thinking? Couldn’t he see that whenever he tried to help her, he made things worse?

Annette folded the discharge papers and shoved them into the envelope. Loog took them back with a smirk.

“This means something to you,” he said. “Did you put him up to it, princess?”

Annette turned away and strode down the road.

“You see, I’ve figured it out,” Loog continued, chasing her. “I know who you are, who he is.”

“If you know who he is, you know you can’t win,” Annette said. “You should give up while you only have discharge papers.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Or at least stupid ones, because she could still see Loog’s shadow travelling along the road beside hers.

“All of it makes me wonder, though. What’s so special about you?”

Annette jerked away from his outstretched hand.

“I warned you before,” she said, glaring at him. “Touch me and you’ll regret it.”

“Will I?” Loog mocked. “The great Fraldarius gave himself away, acting like someone pissed on his territory. Seems to me you must be quite a willing and easy one. How else do you wind up married to a dog when you’ve had a duke? He catch you messing around?”

If Loog had hoped for outrage, he would be disappointed. Annette didn’t care about false accusations. And her relationship with Felix hadn’t been a secret. Dedue knew, her parents knew, everyone she cared about knew.

But as Loog stood there staring, apparently confused by her lack of anger, the old pain returned. Felix had betrayed her. Again.

_And I shouldn’t care!_ Annette berated herself. But after so long, something stupid that Felix had done still had the power to make her want to cry. She was doing it again, like she had with her father. She had to make excuses for the people she cared about, acquit their sins when they did not deserve it.

“What?” Loog said. “Nothing to say?”

“Yes, I have something to say,” Annette said calmly. “How you speak of other people betrays your own intelligence. If you can only compare people to animals, you’re simply holding a mirror up to yourself.”

Without waiting for his reply, Annette turned and headed back in the direction she had come. No bully would force her to change her path. Besides, it was the quickest route home. And if she couldn’t have what she really needed—for Dedue to hold her close and tell her everything would be all right—then she had to at least get there as quickly as possible, where it was safe to cry.


	20. One Shot More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette confronts Felix about his behaviour. Felix finds his past actions and his present course overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter discusses a miscarriage.

**I: The Dancing Goose (Garreg Mach Town) | Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1186  
Evening **

Felix poured another shot of vodka. Then he put the bottle down and stared at the cup. What was he supposed to do next? How had he lived through five years of war without learning how to drown his sorrows? He had been drunk on only two occasions in his life, and neither had been on purpose.

But right now, the oblivion that alcohol brought was exactly what he needed. He didn’t want to remember what Annette said, what he said. Even while the words fell from his mouth, he knew they were wrong. But, like so many words before, he said them anyway. And Annette cried.

_But it’s yours too!_

“I didn’t ask for it, Nettie,” Felix whispered as he lifted the cup to his lips.

A person. That’s what a child was. And a person needed…things. Things Felix couldn’t provide. A home. Warmth, stability. Love.

Felix tipped his head back and emptied the glass again. He had spent his entire youth perfecting his plan to avoid those responsibilities altogether, to earn his freedom with the blade of his sword, live without obligations or duty. Hell, even women had been excluded, until he heard Annette’s stupid songs, and went back to listen again and again…until she had looked at him with fierce eyes and called him evil…

Felix chuckled at the memory. Annette. How was she so many things rolled into one? Talented and clumsy; passionate but soft; damaged, hurt, yet the kindest person he had ever known.

He drank, and lowered the glass slowly, staring at the fireplace across the tavern.

A child. His child. It was ridiculous. Felix couldn’t even imagine it. A tiny creature with blue eyes (that was possible; his father’s were blue) and black hair (she would be a Fraldarius, so naturally).

The bell on the tavern door chimed. A flash of orange at the corner of his eye startled Felix, driving him to his feet. Then he realised the person bearing the shock of hair was much too tall to be Annette.

It was too late to escape, though. Felix had exposed himself by standing, and now Sylvain was striding across the tavern towards him. Upon reaching the table, he picked up the bottle of vodka and looked at it.

“Are you drunk?” Sylvain asked.

Felix regarded the half-empty bottle in confusion.

“I’m not drunk,” he said.

Sylvain snorted and put the bottle down.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “You need to come with me. Now.”

Felix crossed his arms. “Why?”

“I can’t believe you’re making me play the responsible one,” Sylvain said, throwing his hands in the air. “You know you should be at the monastery. Why are you here?”

Felix dropped into his chair and grabbed the bottle.

“You know why,” he said.

Sylvain grabbed the cup before Felix could pour.

“Well, it’s time to go back,” he snapped.

“I have no reason to.”

Sylvain groaned.

“Goddess, I hate you when you’re drunk. Do what you want. I just thought you should know, Annette…”

Felix lunged back to his feet and grabbed Sylvain’s lapel. He heard glass shattering, but it didn’t matter.

“What?” he said. “What about Annette?”

Sylvain grabbed Felix’s wrists, trying to loosen his grip.

“Goddess, I don’t know! She came to the hospital, basically falling to pieces, and Mercedes…”

Felix shoved Sylvain away. There was a crash, but he didn’t look back. He heard the tavern’s other customers yelp and curse as he pushed between tables, knocked against chairs. He didn’t stop.

He ran.

On the road to the monastery, Felix prayed.

“Goddess,” he stammered, words broken apart by gasps, “don’t take her from me. I…damn…don’t take her. Please. She’s all I have.”

_Why weren’t you more careful?_

At the gate of the monastery, Felix fell against the entrance hall, bracing himself with one hand, while the other clasped the stitch in his side. The world was spinning before his eyes. He had never run so fast in his life.

The gatekeeper rushed over.

“Master Felix!” he exclaimed. “Is there a crisis? Something to report? I…”

Felix pushed himself off the wall and grabbed the gatekeeper’s shoulders. More to keep himself upright, but it also helped silence him.

“Annette,” Felix puffed. “Where is…?”

The gatekeeper pushed back his helmet.

“Miss Dominic has not…”

Felix cursed and stumbled away from the man, towards the dormitories.

_Tell me what to do, Felix! How can I make this better?_

“Not like this, Nettie,” he muttered. “Please, don’t be sick.”

Mercedes was leaving Annette’s room. Felix forced his feet to move faster, ignoring the pain.

“Mercedes!”

She turned as Felix reached her.

“Mercie,” Felix said, “Annette…”

Mercedes dropped the basket she was carrying and clapped her hand over Felix’s mouth.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. She glanced towards Annette’s door, then dragged Felix away, down the stairs and towards the greenhouse. There, she removed her hand, her eyes flashing.

“Stay away from her, Felix,” she said. “If I see you anywhere near…”

“What happened?” Felix interrupted. “I need to know she’s okay…”

“No, Felix,” Mercedes said, putting her hands on her hips. “Annie is not okay.”

Felix took a step backwards. He had never seen Mercedes angry. He hadn’t known she could get angry.

“But what right do you have to even ask?” she continued. “After what you did to her, what you said?”

_Try taking responsibility!_

Felix winced. “Mercedes, I…”

He could think of no reason why Mercedes should let him near Annette. She was right. What he had done was unforgiveable. But all the same…

“It’s Nettie,” he said, knowing how pathetic he sounded.

“Exactly. It’s Annie. And you abandoned her when she needed you the most.”

_I don’t want to be a father!_

Felix bit down on his tongue. The alcohol was supposed to make him forget, not relive every word.

“After what you did, you ought to be whipped,” Mercedes said. “A woman can’t conceive a child on her own, in case you hadn’t realised. As it is, you’re lucky Dimitri needs you for this stupid war.”

“Wait, Mercedes,” Felix said, dropping his hand on her arm as she turned away. “I didn’t abandon her. I just…I needed time to think…”

“Time to think?” Mercedes laughed. “You don’t get to think about these things afterwards, Felix. It’s too late.”

Frustration bubbling over, Felix grabbed both of Mercedes’s arms.

“For goddess’s sake, just tell me she’s okay!” he yelled.

“Felix!”

Sylvain yanked Felix away from Mercedes and shoved him towards the greenhouse. Felix tripped on a cobblestone and stumbled forward, throwing his arms out to regain his balance. His stomach roiled.

“Mercedes, are you…” Sylvain began.

“Annette lost the baby.”

Mercedes’s words slammed into Felix. His whole world tilted, but whether into or out of place he couldn’t say.

“She had pain this morning, but she didn’t tell me until the bleeding started. Not that anything could be done, even if I had known.”

The bite had faded from Mercedes’s voice. Felix lifted his hand, searching for something to keep him upright. His legs felt like they would give out any moment. His heart was thumping so loudly, he felt it in his skull.

“Annie will recover, but she won’t be able to march for Myrddin. She’ll probably have more pain…”

Felix closed his eyes.

“Why?” he choked.

There wasn’t an immediate answer, so he asked again.

“Why did it…?”

“I don’t know,” Mercedes said. “These things happen. From what Annie told me, the child would have been seven weeks…sometimes they simply…”

_We’re fighting a war, Annette! You can’t have a baby. _

“Stop,” Felix said.

Mercedes fell silent.

Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat, Felix looked up at the sky. Annette was in her room, but the baby was gone. He had been a father for five days. That morning. Now he wasn’t. Had he wished the child out of existence? His own flesh and blood? Had she heard his anger, thought better of entering the world with him as a…

Felix jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain said softly.

Condolences? He was receiving condolences for losing a child he hadn’t wanted…but who Annette had already loved…

Felix spun to Mercedes.

“Let me see her,” he said.

Mercedes sighed. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight, her eyes darting towards Annette’s room.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.

“Please, Mercedes...”

Felix moved towards her, but Sylvain grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Sylvain…” Felix looked at him. “I need to talk to her. Please. I humiliated her. I…I blamed her. Goddess, as though I…”

Sylvain winced and let him go.

“Felix,” Mercedes said.

When Felix turned to her, Mercedes’s expression was heavy with pity. Nothing more—no compassion, no forgiveness. Just pity.

“Annie doesn’t want to see you,” Mercedes said.

“Let me apologise,” Felix begged, reaching for her. “I can’t lose Nettie. I…”

Mercedes pressed his hand between hers and shook her head.

“It’s too late, Felix,” she said. “You already have.”

**II: Royal School of Sorcery (Fhirdiad) | Ethereal Moon, Year 1187  
Afternoon **

Annette paused on the steps of the Royal School of Sorcery. The square was covered in a fresh layer of snow. Winter had truly arrived, and all sensible people were darting across the square, eager to reach the warmth of their destination.

Except for one, who sat at a table outside the tavern opposite the school. Watching.

Annette sighed as she fastened the top button of her coat. For the past four days, Felix had been there. He must know she had noticed him, that she was choosing to ignore him. She had no reason to talk to him. She didn’t owe him a thing.

But today, Annette glanced at the sky, and saw the promise of even more snow. And she hesitated.

Finally, grumbling at herself, she set off across the square.

Annette knew the moment Felix realised she was coming towards him. He turned on his stool and took a hand out of his pocket to pour a drink. The fool wasn’t wearing gloves. In weather like this, if Felix insisted on spying, he had to at least dress properly, or he would catch a chill.

“What are you doing?” Annette asked as she stopped beside his table.

“Having a drink,” Felix said.

He picked up the small glass in front of him—vodka, Annette guessed—and emptied it.

“You don’t drink,” Annette said. “You can’t stomach alcohol and it makes you too honest.”

Felix grimaced and tapped his finger against the glass.

“I’m escaping the castle,” he said. “You know I hate crowds.”

Annette shook her head in frustration. She pulled out a stool and sat down. The poor server, forced to stand outside because of Felix, took a step towards them. She waved him back.

“Checking up on me does not make up for putting me in danger in the first place. You shouldn’t have dismissed Loog,” she said as she put her bag on the table.

Felix pursed his lips and poured himself another drink. Annette noted that the bottle was missing more than the two glassfuls she had witnessed.

“This has nothing to do with you, Felix,” she insisted. As though it would make him stop.

“I don’t like the way he talks to you,” Felix said. He drank again, finishing the glass. “He deserved what he got.”

Annette crossed her arms. “And I suppose you’re here now because you think that took care of him? Do you expect congratulations? Be sensible, Felix. All you’ve done is make yourself a target.”

“He can’t do anything to me.”

“He seems convinced he can.”

Felix looked at her triumphantly. “So he has been harassing you.”

Annette threw her hands in the air. “For goodness sake, Felix, he’s not the only one!”

Felix turned his attention to his glass.

“Then why won’t you tell Dedue?” he said softly. “Put a stop to it?”

“Because he would blame himself.”

“So he should.”

It was like a stab in the gut, hearing those words from Felix, of all people. Annette swallowed back tears of pure exasperation.

“You’re just like them,” she said.

Felix closed his eyes and raised a hand to his forehead.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “You know I didn’t.”

“Do I?”

For a moment, Annette thought Felix would answer. Then he snatched the bottle and filled his glass. He swallowed the lot in one go. Annette put her hand on her bag, ready to leave, uninterested in watching him get drunk.

Felix’s hand landed on hers.

“Wait,” he said.

But the glass was still in his other hand. Annette raised an eyebrow. Felix released her, clenched his fist, and put the glass down.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m here because I’m worried about you. I’m worried what that snake will do to you.”

That was as close to expressing regret as Felix would ever come. Annette settled back onto the stool and took her hand off her bag.

“You needn’t be. I haven’t seen him for four days.” She sighed, annoyed by the admission she had to make. “I guess, what you did…it seems to have worked after all.”

Felix propped his chin on his hand.

“I don’t trust it,” he said. “He said some things, after I gave him the papers, and…I don’t trust it. He wasn’t…”

“Felix.”

Felix stopped speaking. He glanced at her, then looked away again in favour of the bottle.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I held Charon’s wall, remember?”

Felix winced and spilled a little of the vodka.

“I already put up with this, every day,” Annette said. “And it’s not your place…”

“Nettie.”

Annette drew away from him. Felix squeezed his eyes shut and mouthed a curse.

“Annette,” he said.

Another sip of alcohol.

“Please,” Felix said, “stay home for now. Wait until Dedue gets back.”

Annette shook her head. “I have responsibilities. I have to teach, and there are…”

“Please, Annette.”

Felix’s eyes pleaded with her. It was an expression very few people ever saw on the Duke of Fraldarius, presently made worse by the yellow splotch that still marred the skin around his left eye.

“Felix, what are you doing?” Annette whispered.

Felix fiddled with his glass. She felt a mad desire to tear it away from him.

“Apologising,” he said finally.

Annette’s heart jolted. Felix had always shut himself away from the world, as a way to defend himself from the things that hurt him. One of the key rules of that isolation was to never apologise. Apologising meant admitting weaknesses, vulnerabilities.

In place of apologising, Felix tried to protect the people he cared about.

“You can’t. Not like this,” Annette said.

Felix turned red. He looked away from her to swallow another shot.

“It’s the only way I know how,” he said.

Annette took a breath. She hated that she felt a twinge of sympathy for him. It would be easier if he remained his usual, disagreeable self. As it was…

“Your eye hasn’t fully healed,” she said.

Felix snorted. “Your husband has a formidable punch.”

Annette gasped. Felix laughed as he reached for the vodka. Annette grabbed it first.

“That’s enough,” she said. “Do Dimitri and Sylvain know you’re such a lightweight?”

Felix shook his head. “I don’t drink with them, so they don’t find out.”

“Well, I know, and I do not want a repeat of that night at the academy.”

“I’d never had alcohol before. These days, I can drink at least four more shots before it gets bad.”

“I’m not risking it.”

Felix sat back, with a dumb smile. “Probably wise.”

Annette put the bottle down, on the opposite side of the table to Felix, and shifted in her seat, adjusting her skirts.

“I’m happy for you, you know,” Felix whispered.

Annette met Felix’s eyes. She immediately regretted it. The emotion in them, the longing, was completely exposed, and too close to what she remembered from before. To the way Dedue looked at her. She didn’t want to know what Felix felt.

Looking away from him, Annette clutched her bag with both hands. But before she could stand, coins clattered on the table.

“Until I’m sure you’re safe, I’ll be here every day,” Felix said.

Annette turned on her stool as he walked away.

“No,” she said.

Felix stopped, his back to her.

“You can’t do this,” Annette continued. “I love Dedue. I never, ever want to give him reason to doubt that. If you keep doing this, people will talk. You know people will talk.”

“Annette, I only…”

“Dedue is my husband and the father of my child.”

Felix shoved his hands into his pockets and bowed his head. He half-turned towards her.

“Felix,” Annette said. “It’s time to stop.”

He scuffed his boot in the snow. Annette’s heart thudded. If he argued with her, if he refused, then she would be forced to say worse. To remind him of things that still hurt her. Things that might cause him pain too, but she didn’t know, couldn’t know, if they did, because she had never asked. Annette didn’t want to do that, and she silently begged him to let her be, to let her live in peace.

Felix looked up at her. His face was a mask, that glower that he had perfected long before he ever met her.

“Dedue’s a good man,” he said. “Tell him what’s going on, Nettie.”

And he walked away.

As Felix disappeared into a street on the other side of the square, Annette felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She breathed out, and the server gave her a curious look as he cleared the table.

**III: Stables, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Morning **

It was the most miserable morning of winter to date. It had snowed all night. Drifts were piled high around the stables, while the clouds remained threatening. Faerghus. Goddess, who would live here by choice?

Felix pulled his coat tighter and hugged himself. There was a storm in his stomach, and the chilly air only eased his pounding headache a little. He didn’t know how much he had drunk the night before. Not necessarily a lot, he admitted bitterly to himself. But enough that when his manservant had arrived at dawn, Felix was sitting cross-legged on the floor, chamber pot cradled in his arms, with nothing left in his stomach to expel even though he continued to retch.

Maxime, professional that he was, had taken it in his stride and cleaned Felix up: dressed him in velvets and furs, washed and brushed his hair, so that although Felix felt like the animated dead, he at least didn’t look it. The manservant’s final touch to the whole process was banishing his lord into the cold, hoping it would shock the hangover from his system all together.

It was a shame Maxime was so good at his job, Felix thought as he took shelter under the eave of the stable. If he dismissed Maxime, he would only be disadvantaging himself.

Felix closed his eyes and rested his head back against the stable wall. That brought it to seven times in his life he had been drunk. Maybe he was looking at it all the wrong way. Maybe Annette was truly, on a profound level, bad for him.

Yet she wouldn’t go away. He had drunk, once again, to forget, and, once again, her words only rang clearer in his ears.

“Sothis,” Felix swore.

It was this place. It was knowing she was near and completely out of reach. It was her songs, to which he still knew the words. It was the boar and his stupid sentiment, rubbing off on him.

Felix opened his eyes. For the first time in his life, he wanted to go home.

“Your Grace.”

A shiver passed through Felix. He knew that voice. Nothing could come of it. But he was the boar’s representative, unable to run away.

“Count Varley,” Felix said, lifting himself off the stable wall.

The count bowed slightly, just enough to signify deference to a noble of higher rank, before joining Felix under the eave.

“What brings you to the stables?’ Varley asked.

The question was better directed at Varley himself. As Duke Fraldarius, Felix’s presence anywhere in the castle was unquestionable; but there was no good reason for an Adrestian lord to be loitering by the royal stables.

“Fresh air,” Felix said.

Varley nodded. “Like myself,” he said. “It is, perhaps, providence that we both chose to take a moment outdoors despite the weather. There is something I wish to discuss.”

Every unmarried man of means in Fódlan knew to be wary of those words issuing from Varley’s mouth.

“I need to return to the…” Felix began.

“It will only take a moment,” Varley interjected. “Also, as it is a delicate matter, some privacy is preferred.”

“I cannot…”

“I assure you, Your Grace, it is a matter of importance.”

Felix dug his hands into his pockets. It was pointless, he realised. If he did not hear the count’s proposition now, he would only be forced to endure it later. At least what Varley said was true: on a day when normal people were huddling by a fire, they did have a measure of privacy by the stables. Felix would hate to humiliate Bernadetta by being cornered in a more crowded scene.

“Go ahead,” Felix said.

“As you know, my daughter is of an age where marriage is a primary concern.”

Felix sighed. He leaned back against the stable wall.

“I cannot fault your reticence,” Varley said, completely misinterpreting Felix’s reaction. “I concede she has always been a hopeless girl. But since the end of the war, she has greatly improved herself. She is quiet and obedient. Accomplished in the womanly arts. She keeps to her room most of the time, I grant you, but really, is that much of a barrier to wifehood? A woman who prefers the home is less likely to complain about childbearing, at least.”

Felix folded his arms over his chest.

“I would hope that any person you consider for Bernadetta is interested in more than her ability to bear children,” he said.

Varley simply looked confused.

“What do you mean? Of course they would be. As I have said, she is highly accomplished. And she is also a Crest-bearer.”

His words made Felix queasy. The man was truly trying to sell his daughter off like a pack horse.

“That’s enough,” he said. “The answer is no.”

Varley grabbed Felix’s arm. Felix fixed on him with a glare, and the man quickly jumped back.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “But you must hear me out. I need your help.”

“I…” Felix paused, processing Varley’s words. “My help?”

“Yes.”

Varley took Felix’s arm again, more gently this time, and gestured to a bench against the wall of the stable. Rejecting the offer was very tempting. But Loog’s words lingered in the back of Felix’s mind. It was embarrassing how much the man had unnerved him, not just because of what he had said about Annette, but what he had said about Dimitri.

Felix went to the bench and sat down.

“The attack on Garreg Mach has convinced me of one thing,” Varley said, also taking a seat. “Divisions remain in Fódlan. It is vital that we find ways to mend the breaches. As you know from council meetings, distrust remains, particularly on the part of the Adrestian nobles. I hope you understand I am not a member of that faction.”

Felix nodded acknowledgement. Varley smiled unpleasantly and continued.

“We must find ways to build strong alliances between Faerghus and the former Empire.”

With a sudden realisation of where Varley was going, Felix couldn’t help but laugh. It hurt his head, however. He leaned forward, rubbing his temples.

“Are you unwell, sir?” Varley asked.

“Continue,” Felix said.

Varley gave a huff, then said, “You must see the way forward is a marriage between the king and an Adrestian noblewoman. And I speak not only of an alliance, but of an heir. His Majesty is young, but it is vital that his succession be secured. We must not forget that of Ionius IX’s eleven children, only one survived.”

“And Bernadetta is the perfect candidate,” Felix finished.

“You understand me. She is Adrestian, of the right age, healthy. She and the king even have a prior acquaintance. Surely that will ease any awkwardness in regards to the more delicate aspects of marriage.”

Or increase it tenfold. The idea of the boar married to the shy, fearful Bernadetta was, frankly, laughable.

Felix swung to his feet.

“Varley, I don’t understand my place in this conversation,” he said. “You should speak to the king directly.”

Varley stood, clasping his hands behind his back with a pensive look.

“I think not,” he said. “I am aware of the reputation I have acquired in regards to my daughter’s prospects. I would not wish to be misunderstood.”

Felix snorted. Varley took a step closer, flourishing his hand.

“But, if the suggestion came from a friend, indeed, the king’s closest friend…”

“You overestimate my influence.”

Varley smirked.

“I think not,” he said slowly. “Everybody knows the true mind behind the throne. And if push came to shove…well, I suspect that person would garner significant support.”

Felix’s gut twisted. He stared at the count, unable to form even words of outrage. Varley’s bravery in saying such a thing boiled down to one horrible certainty: there was fuel for the fire, and a match ready to be lit.

A bell tolled. Felix automatically looked towards the castle and saw the Blaiddyd flag being raised on the keep.

“Ah,” said Varley. “The king has returned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay in posting this chapter, mostly caused by the mighty distraction of other fanfics I am working on. Inspiration has struck fairly inconsistently this month, across all sorts of different ideas, and so I jumped between them, resulting in dozens of possible threads for this chapter, and giant drafted messes for it and everything else. Yay!
> 
> But here is the final version, at last, and I will try to be a bit more consistent in working on the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for the kudos and comments that always make my day.


	21. Fear and Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri settles back into life in Fhirdiad, while Byleth draws closer to Enbarr. Dedue's first day home does not go according to Annette's plan.

**I: The King’s Quarters, Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)  
Morning**

As a child, Dimitri had waited eagerly for the sound of the tower bells every time his father went away. He had glanced out the window several times every hour in the vain hope that they would ring. His frustrated tutors had attempted to draw him back to his lessons using maths problems: the distance from Fhirdiad to whatever obscure mark on the map that contained his father, divided by the average number of miles a horse or carriage could travel in a day. When his answer yielded a date three weeks away, he had been forced back to work.

But secretly, Dimitri had stared out his bedroom room every morning before the servants arrived, listening, in case his tutors were wrong and his father returned early.

When the bells began to peal the morning after his return from Garreg Mach, Dimitri was sitting at the breakfast table in his bedroom, government papers abandoned before him, as Timoth prodded his ear with a strange, conical instrument that reportedly allowed the healer to see into the canal. For the first time in his life, Dimitri wondered whether his father had dreaded the bells as much as he had yearned for them. When one was king of Faerghus, instead of prince, they were a call to arms, a warning to be prepared for everything, the best and the worst.

Timoth stepped back and cleared his throat, drawing Dimitri back to the present. The healer looked tired, Dimitri noted. He had arrived on the castle doorstep just after breakfast hour, unannounced and unsummoned. Which meant Dimitri must have a word with Dedue about doing things on his days off, when he was supposed to be spending time with Annette.

“It is an infection, Your Majesty,” Timoth said.

Dimitri smiled, amused by himself, by his own weakness.

“Is that all?” he said.

Timoth raised an eyebrow.

“An infection of the ear may seem trivial, Your Majesty,” he said, voice sharp with disapproval, “but let me assure you that it is not. Your symptoms included nausea and headaches. Fever. Do you wish to end with hearing loss? Or perhaps you prefer constant ringing in your ears, or vertigo?”

Dimitri held up his hands. “Forgive me.”

Timoth dropped his instrument into the medicine case he carried with him. It was a fascinating study, that case, filled with a number of tools from the Adrestian medicine schools where Timoth had studied. As well as a wide assortment of potions and concoctions.

“I do not know what will convince you to take your health seriously, Your Majesty,” Timoth said. “You constantly refuse my advice. Which, by-the-by, on this occasion is bedrest.”

“You know that is not an option.”

“You must make it an option, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri put his hands flat on the breakfast table and pushed himself to his feet.

“If I so much as suggested postponing council for something like this, I would be laughed off the throne. My father negotiated with the Sreng while they stitched up his battle wounds. I’ll manage.”

“With due respect, Your Majesty,” Timoth retorted, “by the account of your previous healer, your father was in better health at forty than you are now.”

Timoth’s words stung, because as much as Dimitri wished to deny it, he knew there was no point. It was true. And it was probably known by most inhabitants of the castle, who undoubtedly had noticed the frequency of Timoth’s visits.

“Do you not have some concoction that will fix this?” Dimitri asked.

Timoth sighed, but selected one from his case. It was a sickly yellow liquid that clung to the side of the glass bottle when it was tipped.

“This will help,” Timoth said, placing it on the table. “I will have to brew you some more doses.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri said quietly.

He turned to the window, hoping Timoth would understand that as a dismissal.

“But,” Timoth continued, denying Dimitri peace, “if you continue to force your way through illness after illness, you will only find your health deteriorating more rapidly. What you need is rest, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri clasped his hands behind his back and looked out over the rooftops of Fhirdiad. At the young age of thirty-two, Timoth had achieved a mastery of medicine and faith that few in Fódlan could equal. Only a fool would ignore him. Time after time, Dimitri was forced to be that fool, for the sake of the hundreds of thousands of people who depended on him.

“What of the nightmares?”

Timoth’s question, spoken so casually, was punctuated by the sharp click of the medicine case’s clasps. Dimitri focussed on a green-tiled roof in the distance, searching for an answer that would satisfy the healer. But the hesitation turned into a silence, eventually broken by a loud sigh from Timoth.

“Then you are still having them.”

Timoth stepped up beside Dimitri and regarded the city.

“What form do they take now?” he asked.

Dimitri shrugged. “The same. Nothing unusual.”

“Your Majesty,” Timoth said slowly, without looking away from the view, “there is no shame in admitting that you are struggling. What you have endured is beyond the imagination of the common person. It is not as though the people of Faerghus are unfamiliar with the stories. They are almost legend, at this point. They will not judge you.”

Dimitri turned from the window and crossed back to the breakfast table. The pot of tea Loup had brought him would be cold, but the papers were still waiting.

“I’m trying to maintain peace,” he said. “I cannot have any weaknesses. None at all.”

“I suppose that is why Dedue, instead of your messenger, knocked on my door.”

“We arrived in Fhirdiad very late. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

“I am a doctor, Your Majesty,” Timoth said. “I am used to attending patients at all hours. Even if you refuse to follow my recommendations, I appreciate at least being given the chance to make them. I have a family to feed.”

That made Dimitri smile. Timoth was beginning to understand him a little better, to attempt that trick.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I will send for you myself next time.”

Timoth picked up his case and bowed to Dimitri.

“I will send the extra doses by runner,” he said. “And I will return in three days to make sure you haven’t made the infection worse. Try to get some decent sleep. Take a sleeping tonic if you have nightmares.”

When the door closed behind Timoth, Dimitri lowered himself into the chair in front of his pile of government papers. He wondered if the healer had noticed the contradiction in his own words. He insisted that concoctions would not fix Dimitri’s health, but was quick to advise a tonic for nightmares.

Dimitri scoffed at himself. It was further proof that most people considered dreams no cause for concern. He wished, at some point in his life, he had experienced that luxury. But his nightmares had always been frightening, traumatic, for as long as he could remember. They had kept him awake more nights than he could count, driven him over and over to illness, and finally to madness.

After Byleth and Rodrigue guided him out of his insanity, Dimitri had tried to recognise his dreams for what they were: painful, sickening, but of the past. In the light of a new day, the past couldn’t hurt him.

If only the dreams would continue being about the past and nothing else.

Dimitri rested his head in his hands. In the new nightmares, the ones that had started that night at the Shy Wyvern, Duscur remained. Dimitri’s father was still murdered before his eyes and Glenn still fell to a knife that slit open his throat.

But amongst the usual death and carnage, there was Mercedes, there was Ashe. Dedue and Annette cowered together, on their knees, as Cornelia or Solon ripped Annette’s newborn child from her arms (though he knew both villains were dead by Byleth’s hand, their threat felt menacing and real). Annette’s screams were torment itself.

Nearby, Felix was also on his knees in the dirt, Sylvain sprawled dead across his lap. It was the same position in which Dimitri had found Sylvain and Ingrid after the Battle of Enbarr, while Felix stood guard silently, his eyes wet with tears. This time, it was Dimitri’s turn to play witness.

Until Byleth collapsed into his arms. Blood soaked her shirt. Dimitri was barely able to hold her weight, his strength gone.

“Your fault,” Byleth said, as she choked. Blood sprayed from her lips and splattered Dimitri’s face.

And Manfred asked him to make his choice once again. It was no longer Duscur burning, but Fhirdiad.

A knock broke through Dimitri’s recollections. He looked up to see Felix at the door. The image from the nightmare blurred with reality, until Dimitri realised that it was not his mind playing tricks on him: there really was a grey tone about Felix’s face.

“You look terrible,” Dimitri said.

Felix snorted as he pushed the door shut.

“I thought kings were supposed to have some tact,” he said. “Byleth?”

“She is recovered, and probably on her way to Enbarr.”

“I see,” Felix said, glancing around the room.

While he was distracted, Dimitri whipped the concoction off the table and into his lap. He prayed Felix hadn’t noticed it, and had reason to believe he had been lucky when his friend dropped into the chair opposite without comment.

Felix stole Dimitri’s teacup and filled it, only to make a face with the first sip.

“It’s cold,” he said.

“It’s old,” Dimitri replied.

Felix put the tea cup down with a disgusted frown.

“Well, best order a new one,” he said. “I have things to tell you.”

**II: The Road to Enbarr **

It was nonsensical that after three days on horseback, Byleth felt more refreshed than she had in more than a year. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the sun. It felt warmer than it did at Garreg Mach—although, that could simply be the fact that the Oghma Mountains were behind them and they were travelling south.

She had missed this. Until the year Byleth taught at the Officers Academy, the road had been her life. There had never been a time when she and her father were not on it. As for the years since, commanding an army that had fought battles across the length and breadth of Fódlan added up to one thing: Byleth simply was not used to staying in one place.

Was that the reason she felt so uncomfortable in her position as archbishop?

Byleth’s thoughts suddenly felt too heavy. She spurred her horse into a trot, thinking to lose them in the wind, as Dimitri had once suggested.

“Oh, do we need to speed up now?”

The question was uttered with such disdain that Byleth laughed. She heard Sylvain chuckle too. That was good. But at the moment, their pessimist, not Sylvain, was Byleth’s concern.

She slowed her horse back to a walk and turned her head to made a study of Lysithea. The mage was slouching in the saddle and, as Byleth watched, she released another large yawn. The nights had been difficult for Lysithea while they had camped near the mountains, with the wind particularly loud and strong as it funnelled through the valleys. Apparently, Lysithea had never lost her fear of ghosts.

Sylvain nudged his horse a little closer to them.

“Perhaps we could share a tent,” he said. “I’ll protect you from the ghosts. You needn’t worry your pretty little head about them.”

Lysithea lifted furious eyes to his face.

“Sharing a tent with you would make ghosts the least of my worries,” she snapped. “And to be honest, I believe I would prefer them.”

Sylvain lifted a hand to his heart. “Ouch,” he said.

Byleth didn’t laugh. Despite Sylvain’s jovial manner, she could sense his melancholy. The same melancholy that had hung about him ever since they left Garreg Mach, and that she suspected would only get worse the closer they came to Enbarr. Had she made a mistake, asking him to join her? For now, all she knew for certain was that Sylvain was closely guarding himself, rebuffing any attempt to peek behind his mask. Like his response to her question over the campfire the previous night.

_Who are you really angry at?_

Sylvain had looked at her with hatred, similar to that he had revealed during their first honest conversation, all those years ago at the academy, and retreated to his tent.

“You know, you didn’t have to come with us,” Sylvain said, winking at Byleth as though nothing had happened between them. “You are the one who insisted.”

“Did you expect me to pass up the opportunity to return to Enbarr?” Lysithea replied incredulously. “The only time I’ve been there was the battle. And there was no chance to see the libraries on that occasion.”

Sylvain’s smile disappeared as they reached the top of the rise they were climbing. Byleth scurried for something to say, to bring it back, when Lysithea suddenly reined in her horse and stopped all together.

“Goddess,” she whispered.

Byleth brought her horse to a halt and stared out over the landscape, a green expanse stretching without interruption, save for the river that raged below, a couple of miles from the base of the cliff on which they stood. She had not realised they were so close, had lost track since setting out at dawn.

Gronder Field.

Behind them, there was a clutter as Byleth’s escort stopped.

“Your Grace?” came the voice of the commander.

Byleth waved at him absently, to indicate that she was fine, before dismounting. Sylvain and Lysithea copied her. Together, they walked to the edge of the cliff.

“I’ll be happy when I never have to see this place again,” Sylvain muttered.

“This is the first time I’ve been back since Dimitri’s coronation,” Lysithea said.

“Since peace,” Byleth breathed.

Looking down at the field from this height, Byleth’s memories twisted and combined: Dimitri’s proud smile when Seteth declared the Blue Lions the victors of the mock battle, and his roar when she and Rodrigue dragged him away from the retreating Imperial army. The first recollection felt different now, tinged with emotions far stronger than the simple and detached amusement of a teacher. And the second…Byleth remembered, in the moment, being so angry. Furious at Dimitri and his contempt for his friends, for his enemies, and, even more so, for himself. How she had hated him, that day.

Byleth started at the hand that brushed her arm.

“By, you okay?” Sylvain asked.

She looked at him, forced a smile.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s doing me wonders, being outdoors.”

Sylvain frowned. Yes, it was an odd thing to say above a battlefield where they had fought so desperately for their lives. Byleth quickly turned back to her horse and mounted.

“Let’s keep going,” she said.

As they descended into the field proper, Sylvain directed his horse to walk beside hers. Lysithea hung back, having entered into an animated conversation with the escort commander.

“Seriously, By,” Sylvain said. “You seem upset about something.”

Knowing he wouldn’t want to hear about her struggles to put Dimitri out of her mind, Byleth seized on another concern to appease him.

“Ashe’s letter worries me,” she said. “It seems we must be prepared for anything.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

He wasn’t fooled. Byleth glanced at Sylvain. At the academy, apart from being one of her most difficult students, he had also been the brightest. If there were any conclusions to be drawn about what was going on in Enbarr, Byleth knew he would reach them much faster than she would.

“What are your thoughts on Ashe’s report?” she asked.

Sylvian shrugged.

“At this point, with a threat like that…well, there aren’t a lot of culprits,” he said. “Felix and I spent a lot of time weeding out the last of the Imperial army. And most of the Adrestian nobles signed the peace contract. They value their heads, if you know what I mean.”

“There must be someone left. A lot of people supported her.”

“All her generals, all her strongest allies, died in the battle at Enbarr,” Sylvain said dismissively.

They rode in silence for several minutes, drawing closer to the high ground in the centre of the field. Byleth watched the grass bending in the wind. She remembered how it burned against her face, when she was thrown to the ground after the explosion of fire on the hill.

Sylvain shifted in his saddle suddenly.

“Although,” he said, “there was a lot of merit in what Edelgard wanted to do.”

Byleth twisted her reins around her hands. There was an edge to Sylvain’s voice that frightened her.

“Six years of rule is a long time,” he continued. “A very long time, especially for an idea to seep through the fabric of society. What is it they say? You can kill a person, but not an idea. I bet there are a lot of people in Adrestia who would love to continue what Edelgard started. And the Crest-wielding idiots in Faerghus are too busy worrying about all their messy little schemes to think about what the commoners might be feeling.”

Sylvain spoke as though he was not opposed to a revolt. Byleth had to admit that it wasn’t surprising, considering his history with Crests and the nobility system. But the thought of him joining with people who believed in Edelgard’s methods terrified her.

Then Sylvain laughed. The menacing feeling lifted, and they passed the central hill of Gronder Field.

“What do I know, though?” Sylvain said, smiling at Byleth. “Not like I really know what’s going on in Fhirdiad. Let’s be honest, I was drunk the whole time I was there.”

**III: Fhirdiad **

Dedue had surprised Annette just after midnight. She had jolted awake at the sound of the door, jumped out of bed when he entered the room, and nearly injured herself in her rush to the kitchen, because he must be _starving_. But hunger had not been the first thing on Dedue’s mind. He had dragged Annette back to bed, wrapped his arms around her as though he would never let go, and promptly fallen asleep.

Annette hadn’t blamed him, even while she studied his face and wished he would wake up so they could talk. The trip to Garreg Mach had clearly run him ragged. The evidence was in the dark marks under his eyes.

So when Annette woke and found Dedue gone, she was furious. She got out of bed and dug through her trunk for clean clothing. She had almost finished dressing, to march up to the castle and give Dimitri a piece of her mind, when her husband appeared in the bedroom doorway again, just like he had in the middle of the night. Annette dropped her boot. As she jumped to her feet, Dedue raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You’re awake,” he said. “I hoped to get back quicker. Forgive me. Timoth was asleep.”

“Timoth?” Annette asked, confused.

“I had to send him to Dimitri.”

As Dedue spoke, his eyes dropped to Annette’s feet. A mischievous smile appeared on his lips. Annette tried to hide her stockinged foot behind her shod one.

“Are you going somewhere?” Dedue asked, advancing towards her.

Annette blushed. She couldn’t tell Dedue what she had planned to do. He definitely wouldn’t approve. Especially if he had been fetching Timoth, because that meant Dimitri was sick. Again.

“No,” she said, forced to tilt her head back as Dedue drew closer. “Where would I be going?”

Dedue stopped directly in front of her. Annette always felt so tiny next to him, which was both frustrating and somehow erotic. He leaned down to tease her with an almost-kiss.

“You don’t have to teach today, correct?” he said.

The look in his eyes sent a shiver up Annette’s spine.

“Correct,” she said.

Dedue smiled.

“Good.”

With that, he swept her into his arms and deposited her on the bed.

Annette was left to recover her bearings as Dedue dropped to one knee before her. He propped her booted foot against his leg, to untie the laces and remove it, before unceremoniously pushing her skirt up so it bunched in her lap. Annette watched, her mouth dry, as he drew off her garter and rolled her stocking down her leg. He pressed kisses to her thigh with every inch revealed.

Unable to keep her hands to herself any longer, Annette reached out and ran her fingers through Dedue’s hair. He immediately stopped what he was doing and looked up, questioning. Annette’s heart swelled. He was so gentle, so good. She wondered how anyone could think ill of this beautiful man.

“I love you,” she said.

Dedue took her hand and raised it to his lips, to kiss her palm.

“I love you too,” he said.

Later, when they were nestled in the bed, sated and content, Dedue’s stomach growled. Annette giggled as he hid his face against her shoulder, a red tinge visible on the tops of his ears. She shuffled out from under him and escaped their tangle of blankets.

“I’ll cook you something,” she said, pulling on her robe.

Dedue joined her in the kitchen shortly after, having taken the time to put on his trousers.

“Allow me,” he said. “Sit down and rest.”

“You’ve travelled all the way from Garreg Mach,” Annette argued. “You’re the one who should be resting.”

Dedue didn’t respond verbally. He simply took Annette’s arms, steered her towards a chair at the kitchen table, and turned to the cooling box.

“You bought fish?” he said, after looking inside.

“I’m going to make you spicy stew,” Annette pouted, putting her elbows on the table.

Dedue smiled. “Perhaps I will make it for dinner. But for now…” He held up two eggs. “I can make…”

His last word was drowned out by the shattering of glass directly behind Annette. She screamed and jumped from her chair, her hands raised to her stomach in an instinctive action. Before her sight and hearing cleared, Dedue grabbed her, spinning her towards the back of the kitchen and wrapping himself around her as a shield.

But there was silence; no second attack came.

Dedue straightened, lifting his weight off Annette’s back. He turned her in his arms and raised one hand to her face, the other covering hers where they still rested against her belly, protecting their baby.

“Annette,” he said, “are you hurt?”

Annette shook her head. Dedue pulled her close again and held her.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, rubbing her back, calming the tremors that shook her body. “I’ve got you.”

It was several minutes before Annette felt strong enough to leave the safety of Dedue’s arms. When she did, she put one hand against the wall, supporting herself just in case, as she surveyed the room. The eggs Dedue had been holding were broken on the floor. Beyond the kitchen table, the window above the desk where Annette marked her student’s work was broken. Jagged pieces of the pane traced a hole in the centre. On the floor in front of the desk, amongst the shards of glass that had once filled that hole, was a large rock.

Dedue crossed the room and picked it up. He peered into the street.

“We’re on the second floor,” he said thoughtfully. “This must have been thrown on purpose.”

Annette could see his mind working, in the wary set of his shoulders and the tension in his body, the frown on his face. Her heart started to race again. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. It wasn’t.

“Who would do that?” Annette said, forcing a laugh at the end of the question.

Dedue’s eyebrows knit together.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He put the rock down.

“But was is important right now is going to a healer,” he said. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

Annette knew exactly what he meant. She spread her fingers across her stomach, not daring to speak her fear aloud. She would die if it happened again.

“Everything is okay,” she said, though her voice shook. “Our baby is strong. He is fine.”

Dedue smiled gently as he returned to her. He urged her to lean her weight against him, instead of the wall.

“He?” he asked, almost conversationally. Reassuringly.

“Just a guess,” Annette said, as they walked towards the bedroom together. “But yes, he.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dream of the day I manage to keep to my planned schedule for this story. Thank you for your patience and I will once again attempt to make more regular updates.
> 
> A special shout-out to my reviewers, whose comments truly make my day. And to my regular readers - I may not know all your names, but I really do appreciate the fact that you return to continue this crazy thing with me.
> 
> Update 28/06/20: So instead of working on the new chapter (whoops), I spent the weekend reviewing what I've already written, a long overdue task to address some inconsistencies and mistakes I knew were lingering in earlier parts of the fic. Alongside this, I ended up making edits in all chapters (just fixing some wording and pacing problems), and also rewrote or expanded some sections, especially in chapters 1-4. But rest assured there have been no plot changes and all scenes remain the same, just with extra descriptions or bit more information added. Definitely nothing requiring a reread unless you fancy it! The whole exercise was more to satisfy my perfectionist attitude than anything else. As always, thanks for reading and I hope you are enjoying the story. Chapter 22 will be up soon.


	22. Friend, Husband and Retainer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue tries to balance the various roles he plays in new Fódlan.

**I: Garreg Mach Monastery | Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1186  
Late afternoon**

It was near the hour that Dedue had promised to relieve the professor in their shared vigil over Dimitri. Since the battle at Myrddin, they had fallen into a routine, each giving half the day, half the night to the task. As painful as it was to admit it, there was little else they could do. Dimitri would not accept any other form of assistance.

But when Dedue saw Annette sitting on the steps by the cemetery, his footsteps faltered. Throughout the years he had been separated from the rest of the Blue Lions, he had remembered her as cheerfully indefatigable, facing every challenge with determined resilience. Now, she looked lost and defeated, her head resting against the stone wall beside her, her spine curved as though she was trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible.

It would be simple to dismiss it as another one of those changes that war wrought upon people, but Dedue could not. Despite having only returned to the monastery a few days earlier, he wasn’t ignorant of what circumstances might have led to Annette being alone in such a place. Gossip was a precious commodity in the dreariness of war, as well as a trade to which the monastery was not immune. It had only taken a few scraps of overheard conversation for Dedue to piece together the situation.

And, regrettably, he knew the devastation that situations like Annette’s wrought. Amara had sat like that, alone, on the hillside by their house, while Dedue had watched from the door of their family home and his mother had trudged up the slope to comfort her. He had wanted to go too, but had been forbidden. He was too young to help, his mother had said. Even though when he had sat next to Amara’s husband, in the hiding place behind the forge where they all went to cry, it had made Mattia smile through his tears and ruffle Dedue’s hair.

Annette shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Dedue wondered at Felix’s neglect, even if there was trouble between them. At Gilbert’s.

It wasn’t until Dedue lowered himself onto the step beside Annette that she raised her head. The tears anointing her cheeks shimmered in the last of the day’s light. Strangely, she made no effort to wipe them away.

“Dedue,” she said. “Do you need something?”

“No,” Dedue replied.

Annette smiled. The effort behind it was visible.

“Then what are you doing?” she asked.

Dedue clasped his hands together. He should have guessed that she would start a conversation. He felt unequipped for those after four years alone.

“I am…” He glanced towards the cemetery. “I am sorry for your loss.”

He turned back to Annette, took in her stunned expression, and realised he had made a mistake. He flinched when she sprung to her feet.

“So you’ve heard the stories already?” she snapped, her hands landing on her hips. “I never took you for a gossip.”

“No, Annette, I…”

“How careless Annette is! How lucky she lost the baby. That’s what they say, isn’t it?” she interjected. “We’re in the middle of a war and she has _responsibilities_.”

Dedue’s heart thudded. Surely people hadn’t said things like that to her. Surely they hadn’t been so cruel.

“Forgive me,” Dedue said. “I should not have spoken.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” Annette choked as her tears renewed themselves. She swept her sleeve across her face. “I thought you were kinder than that, Dedue.”

With that, she ran in the direction of the dormitories, her cape billowing around her shoulders.

The exchange ate at Dedue’s thoughts as he kept watch over Dimitri that evening. He had never felt more of a fool. Upon returning to the monastery, he had decided not to ask his former classmates about their experiences throughout the war. He had been scared they would pose questions in return. The marks that Cornelia’s torture had left on his body, the strain of endless solitude during the years he had searched for Dimitri, even the joy of his reunion with his brothers from Duscur…the thought of sharing any of it was painful. So why had he brought up Annette’s grief?

_No matter how hard I try, I always seem to mess things up._

Dedue rubbed an ache at the back of his neck as he recalled Annette’s words from their time at the academy. She had been speaking about a pot of stew that had boiled over. How trite their worries had been. And yet, they had revealed so much about who they were.

Annette had struggled for perfection for as long as Dedue had known her. It was a pursuit he understood too well. If one did everything perfectly, there was no reason for people to criticise or judge you. Blame you. For a girl who sought nothing but the approval of a father who had abandoned her, perfection was everything. Just as it was everything for a boy who carried the reputation of his entire people on his shoulders.

The professor’s return a few hours after midnight was a relief. Dedue could tell she hadn’t slept, but when she wordlessly laid a hand on his arm and nodded towards the dormitory, he didn’t make his usual offer to see out the night. Instead, he hurried back to his room.

The following afternoon, Annette marched up to Dedue with the letter he had slipped under her door earlier that day pressed against her chest.

“Apology accepted,” she said.

And she left.

Two days passed. When Dedue opened the door of his room on the morning of the third, he disturbed a piece of paper lying on the floor. He crouched down and picked it up.

> _Dedue,_
> 
> _I’ve been thinking about your sister. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I guess knowing about her makes me feel less alone. Did she really meet her husband like that? It’s terribly romantic._
> 
> _But I thought you were the oldest in your family._
> 
> _Annette._

Dedue smiled. Deciding to forgo breakfast, he turned to his desk.

Later the same day, he was standing his watch in the cathedral when Annette appeared from nowhere, shoved another folded piece of paper into his hands, and ran away.

Dedue sank down onto a pew. He glanced at Dimitri, for reassurance, then opened the letter. The page was dotted with ink splats, suggesting it had been penned in a hurry.

> _Imagine, three older sisters! I’ve always been jealous of people who have siblings. I felt so lonely when I was little. It wasn’t until I met Mercie that I made a proper friend. I guess that was because all the other children in Fhirdiad didn’t like me very much—they said I was a know-it-all and boring. I don’t suppose you remember me mentioning how strict my uncle is? Because I’m the family’s heir and all, he really wants me to live up to my Crest. Of course, I’ve ruined all that now. Even father isn’t talking to me. Then again, I suppose that’s nothing new._
> 
> _I’m making my uncle and my father both sound terrible. They aren’t. My uncle’s actually very kind. My father, well, I don’t understand him. It was hard on my mother when he left. Why doesn’t he understand that?_
> 
> _I am very sorry about yelling at you the other day. I feel an absolute wretch for calling you unkind when you only wanted to help and listen. But I guess I don’t really know what to say. These days I don’t feel much like myself._

By the time Dedue had finished reading, he was frowning. He stood up and strode through the cathedral to the small desk near the entrance where the counsellor worked. Today there was a middle-aged female monk there. She recoiled a little as Dedue approached, so he stopped a few paces away.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said. “I wondered if you have a pencil?”

The monk gave up the one in her hand.

“You can keep it,” she said.

Dedue forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Upon returning to his place, Dedue turned Annette’s letter over. He leaned it against the seat of the pew so he could write on the back.

> _I do not want you to regret the honesty with which you have honoured me, so I return this note to you now. You do not have to explain yourself or what you are feeling. I offered to listen, but that does not oblige you to speak._

He pushed the letter under Annette’s door on the way back to his room.

The next morning at breakfast, Dedue was sitting alone at the far end of a table when he saw Annette enter the dining hall. A soldier whispered something to his neighbour as she passed. If Annette noticed him too, she ignored him, proceeding straight to the servery.

Dedue continued to watch as she collected her food, turned towards the tables, and looked around the room. Knowing she would be searching for Mercedes, and that the healer would take good care of her, he resumed his meal. It wasn’t until he sensed a presence at his shoulder that he looked up again, to see Annette beside him, her fingers clenched around her tray.

“Annette,” he said, straightening. “Can I help you with something?”

She chewed on her lip for a long moment, then said, “I really don’t have to say anything?”

Dedue shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Annette smiled. She put her tray down on the table and stepped over the bench to take the seat beside him. Dedue couldn’t help the smile that spread across his own face in response. He quickly suppressed it, however, when he saw Felix glaring at them from across the hall.

**II: House Dominic (Fhirdiad) | Ethereal Moon, Year 1187  
Morning**

The thud of boots descending the stairs outside the bedroom woke Dedue. He tensed, hoping the sound wouldn’t disturb Annette, who was curled up beside him, her tiny form warm against his bare chest. They had escaped their apartment, and the cold air flooding through the broken window, for her comfort. The effort would be rendered pointless if the incessant racket of House Dominic stole her sleep.

It worried Dedue how tired Annette had been the past few weeks, enough that he had ventured to mention it to the healer. Reda had tossed him an amused smile and said, as though speaking to a child, that it was perfectly natural for a woman to feel fatigued during pregnancy. Annette had immediately chimed in and agreed, before kissing Dedue on the cheek and saying he was sweet to be so concerned over her.

As the sound of the boots faded, Dedue lifted himself onto one elbow. The curtains were thick, but enough light crept around their edges and through the gap where they met to allow him to see Annette’s face. She slept on, one arm protecting their baby, as though the previous day’s fright remained present in her mind.

Dedue closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. Rosewater and sandalwood. It transported him back to their wedding night—the first time he had held her like this, in this very bed. He had still disbelieved his good fortune. When he proposed, on that unseasonably cold evening of the Horsebow Moon, nine days before Dimitri’s coronation, he had not expected anything. It had only been a few months since he had confessed the change in his feelings, a few weeks since their first kiss. But he had needed to ask. Nothing in the world had been more important.

Let it be the pregnancy and nothing else, Dedue prayed, opening his eyes, sliding his hand down Annette’s arm to rest over her smaller one, over their child. She claimed that everything was fine, but he felt uneasy. As much as he despised himself for it, he was suspicious. Sometimes, when Annette arrived home, her face was drawn, anxious. And she didn’t laugh as much as she had before. Now, with the broken window as well…

Annette shifted. Dedue laced his fingers through hers.

“Mm, Dedue?” she murmured, turning her head. Her eyelids fluttered, as though she was struggling to open them. Dedue smiled and kissed her temple.

“I’m due at the castle,” he said. “I have to go.”

Annette nodded. Then she snuggled against him.

“Classes,” she sighed. “This afternoon.”

“Shall I meet you afterwards?”

“Okay.”

Dedue held her until she dozed off again.

He dressed by the light peeking through the gap in the curtains, before adjusting them so it wouldn’t fall across Annette’s face as the sun continued to rise. Then he returned to the bed and checked the fleece blankets were tucked around Annette. He kissed her forehead. She didn’t stir. Considering how much energy she poured into each day, it wasn’t surprising that she slept deeply.

“I will love you always,” Dedue whispered. “Both of you. As much as it is within my power, you will never want for anything.”

Having renewed the promise he made every morning, he quietly left the room.

House Dominic was a tall, rectangular building with four floors in the north of Fhirdiad. It was extremely modest compared to its neighbours, with granite bannisters instead of marble, paintings confined to the second floor drawing and first floor dining rooms, and only one staircase that was shared by the family and servants. It spoke to the humble history of the Dominic family, particularly in the light of other houses descended from the Elites.

Nonetheless, even in this modest mansion Dedue felt like an intruder. It had been years since he had started haunting the halls of the Faerghus nobility, but his sense of displacement had never gone away. Not even with the welcome he had received from Annette’s family—especially her mother, who, as he reached the second floor landing, he spied sitting on the chaise lounge outside her bedroom. She could often be found there, staring out the window at the front courtyard, as though waiting for someone.

Honore looked over her shoulder as he approached. Dedue paused to bow, before walking around the lounge so she wasn’t twisted uncomfortably.

“Good morning,” Honore said, smiling up at him. Her large, blue eyes sparkled. “Is Annette still abed?”

“Good morning, ma’am. She is.”

Honore lifted a hand. Dedue quickly took it.

“She is like me,” she said, gripping Dedue’s hand as she slowly rose. “When I was pregnant with her, I could barely move some days. Now, would you be so kind as to take me down to breakfast?”

Dedue nodded. Honore leaned her weight on his arm.

Ever since Dedue had known her, Honore had been frail. Annette had told him that prior to Gilbert’s disappearance, her mother had been admired for her bright personality and boundless energy as much as her yellow curls and delicate features. That had changed in the months after the Tragedy. Gossip spread like wildfire through the city, focussing less on Gilbert and more on how Honore was a shadow of her former self, shrunk down to a skeleton, with a miserable demeanour and a face newly ravished by frown lines. Already suffering from her husband’s abandonment, the additional loss of her friends had been devastating.

The story had frightened Dedue. He thought on it often.

“I am sorry about your window,” Honore said when they were halfway down the stairs to the first floor. “But I am glad it’s brought you both here. I’ll be able to take care of Annette for a few days, catch up on everything we’ve missed. You stole her away so quickly after the war.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dedue said automatically.

Honore laughed. “Don’t be sorry. Annette adores you and I’m glad to see her happy. Besides, you’re a great deal more agreeable than the Fraldarius boy, from what I’ve heard.

Dedue kept his expression straight. “Do you know Felix?” he asked.

“Not at all. Is he as awful as people say?”

Dedue stepped onto the first floor landing, supporting Honore as she followed.

“Whatever Felix’s flaws,” he said carefully, “he was not cruel to Annette as a habit. He treasured her as well as she deserves. It was only on the one occasion that his fear got the better of him.”

Honore frowned. “Are you defending him?”

“No. What he did was terrible. But it would be unjust to pretend that Annette didn’t mean the world to him.”

Honore bit her lip—a habit Dedue now knew Annette had learned from her—but before she could respond, the door beside them opened.

“Honore?”

Dedue and Honore both turned to see Gilbert standing in the entrance to his brother’s office, his fingers wrapped around the door handle. With the other, he tugged on his tunic to straighten it, before stepping into the hallway and snapping the office door shut behind him. Honore, meanwhile, had adopted a guarded smile. She patted Dedue’s arm and released him before moving towards her husband.

“Good morning,” Gilbert said gently, offering his arm.

Honore ignored it, instead cupping his face with one hand and raising herself on her toes, her intention clear. Dedue averted his eyes and did not raise them again until Gilbert spoke.

“Is Annette still asleep?”

Dedue looked back to see Honore holding Gilbert’s arm. But there were several inches of empty air between their bodies. It struck Dedue, whose experience of walking with Annette consisting of her hanging off him, her elbow poking into his side, their legs brushing together with every step. Gilbert had returned to live at Dominic House just after Dedue and Annette’s wedding, but one year was not enough to undo the damage of the nine that had come before.

“I thought it best to let her rest, sir,” Dedue said, to answer Gilbert’s question.

“After what happened yesterday, you are probably right,” Gilbert said. “Will you join us for breakfast?”

Dedue shook his head.

“I’m due at the castle,” he explained, keeping several paces behind his parents-in-law as they moved towards the dining room. He did not want to cause Honore any distress by rushing her.

“Very well. Please relay to His Majesty that I will attend the council this afternoon as requested.”

Dedue bowed. Gilbert and Honore both nodded acknowledgement before disappearing through the dining room door, leaving Dedue alone in the hallway.

**III: Royal Castle (Fhirdiad)**

Dedue entered the castle, as he did every day, through the servants’ door on the eastern side. The guard didn’t stop him; his face was familiar enough to all the castle’s inhabitants, high and low, that his purpose was rarely checked. It was something he should raise with the Master of the Household.

Once inside, he followed a familiar path through the back hallways to the kitchen. He poked his head inside and saw Loup sitting on a stool at one of the large preparation benches, a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him. The boy jumped to his feet when he noticed Dedue, wobbling a little as his arms fell by his side.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning,” Dedue replied. “Where is His Majesty?”

“In his private study, sir. He’s been there since early this morning.”

Dedue sighed and rested his hand against the doorframe. “His condition?”

Loup smiled painfully. Dedue shook his head, knowing that meant he had been ordered to keep his peace.

“Dedue! Scat!”

Dedue moved out of the doorway so that Yvette, the head chef, could enter the kitchen. A tall, muscular woman of Morfis descent, she wore bright, comfortable clothing that seemed out of place on a senior member of the castle’s staff. Her dark hair was pinned tightly to her scalp. In all, she was little changed from when Dedue had stumbled into her domain as a fifteen-year-old with a poor grasp of Fódlan speech. At that time most of the servants had avoided him, but Yvette had sat him down, served him a large cup of cinnamon tea, and let him weep.

“You haven’t eaten,” Yvette stated, pointing accusingly at Dedue.

She crossed the kitchen to the hearth, where a large pot hung over the fire. Dedue could guess it contained the night staff’s breakfast. Many of them, like Loup, stopped at the kitchens to eat before they headed home.

“I should go to His Majesty,” Dedue said.

“Nonsense. His Majesty is fine. I sent him fresh coffee and sweet buns only an hour ago.”

“Coffee?”

Yvette shoved a bowl of porridge, flavoured with nuts and dried fruit, into Dedue’s hand.

“Don’t you fret on it. Now eat,” she said, passing him a spoon. “I heard you’re staying with your wife’s family.”

Dedue felt heat rise in his cheeks.

“Who betrayed me this time?” he asked.

“You know the milkman delivers to the northern corner ‘fore us.” Yvette turned to retrieve a bowl covered with a kerchief from the bench by the window. “The Dominic footman asked for an extra pint.”

Dedue shook his head. Fhirdiad’s servants surpassed even Dimitri’s spies for their collection and interpretation of information.

“I don’t know why you act so timid around them,” Yvette scolded as she threw back the kerchief and fished a lump of dough from within the bowl. “There’s nothing separating you and them. You married their daughter. You’ve the right to eat at their table. Once that girl’s Baroness Dominic, you’ll be a lord.”

Dedue leaned against the bench, mixing his porridge with his spoon.

“Things are never as simple as you make them out to be, Yvette,” he said quietly.

Yvette chuckled. “Things are only as complicated as you decide they’ll be. Now finish your breakfast. The maids weren’t far behind me and we’ve a castle full of noble fools to serve lunch.”

Dedue nodded and obeyed. Loup was already perched back on his stool, attacking his food with fervour.

The maids arrived a short time later. Dedue was forced to jump out of the way of more than one of them, but at least they didn’t scowl in his direction as they once had. Finally, he finished the porridge and passed his empty bowl to a scullery maid in the washroom. He dropped a hand on Loup’s shoulder as he passed back through the kitchen.

“Sleep well,” he said.

Loup nodded eagerly. “Yes, thank you sir.”

“Dedue,” Yvette called, and he paused at the door while she hurried over with a tray of fresh tea. The scent revealed it as camomile. “You are right; His Majesty has drunk too much coffee this morning. He never touched the stuff before he was crowned.”

Dedue accepted the tray with a smile and left.

The king’s private study was in the far north-western corner of the castle, distant enough from the main audience halls to communicate the honour of being invited there. Dedue knew the way as well as the back of his hand and paid little attention as he followed it, his mind absorbed in a myriad of thoughts about Annette and Dimitri and all the unrelated things he had to do that day. So when he heard his name, he started, but didn’t jump—he didn’t want to spill the tea.

Hilda stepped around him, a large and lazy smile on her face. She was dressed in a simple, unadorned gown of the type that noble women wore in the morning, before they left their private rooms. Dedue wondered briefly what she was doing wandering the halls.

“I thought it was you,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “How’re things?”

“Hilda,” Dedue replied. “I thought you would have returned to Goneril by now.”

“Nope,” Hilda declared, stretching her arms behind her back. “Still here. All the nobles are.”

“All of them?”

“Yep.”

Dedue sighed. No wonder Dimitri had started work early.

“I’m so glad you and His Majesty are back, though,” Hilda said. “Felix is a terrible host. The number of times my brother has had to take over…I don’t like to see him working so hard.”

“I am sorry you have found the visit challenging.”

“Not challenging, as such,” Hilda mused. “Just uninteresting. But how is the professor? There are a few people who’d like to know.”

“Byleth is well. I am sure His Majesty will give further details at the council this afternoon, if your brother is concerned.”

Hilda waved a hand through the air.

“Phooey, it’s not him who I need to tell,” she said. “Anyway, thanks for the chat, Dedue. I think I’ll head back to my room now. Say hi to Dimitri for me.”

Hilda wandered down the hall ahead of Dedue. He remained where he was and waited for her to turn a corner, checking it was in the direction of the guest quarters, before he continued on.

Upon reaching the door of the king’s study, Dedue paid the courtesy of knocking before he entered. Inside, he found Dimitri at his desk, pen in hand. A substantial pile of paperwork sat by his right hand, meaning it was complete. Dedue raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not that ill,” Dimitri said, right on cue. Although he had the decency to look ashamed.

Dedue put the tray down on the desk.

“Dimitri, I saw you delirious with fever,” he said. “It will take more than that to convince me. Besides, you swore Loup to silence, which tells me enough.”

“How is Annette?”

“I only grow more concerned when you try to be devious, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri closed his eyes with a sigh. Then he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a vial of yellow liquid. He placed it on the desk before continuing with his work.

“I must take it twice a day until this cursed infection goes away. Timoth will visit again.”

Dedue picked up the vial. He did not recognise the formula by its label or its appearance, but he trusted Timoth. He oftentimes wished he could take Annette to him, but the healer’s fees were too high for Dedue or even House Dominic to afford.

“Infection?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” Dimitri said, waving a hand, much like Hilda had. “I have more important things to think about. Like this afternoon’s council.”

“Indeed. Gilbert said that he will attend as you requested.”

Dimitri looked up at that.

“You’ve seen him today?” he asked.

“Annette and I are staying at her uncle’s house.”

“Whatever for?”

Dedue put the concoction down and sat in the chair facing Dimitri’s desk. He began to pour the tea.

“Yesterday a rock was thrown through the window of our apartment,” he said. “We thought it better to stay with Annette’s family rather than suffer the cold air.”

Dimitri frowned. “Thrown? By someone?”

“That is what I suspect.” Dedue reached across the desk to place a full teacup in front of Dimitri. “We are on the second floor. It could not have been flung up by a wheel. Besides, it was too large.”

“Ruffians?”

“I am not sure. Annette is…”

Dedue trailed off. Dimitri was his closest friend in the world, but it felt wrong to talk to him about this. Surely he owed it to Annette to be honest with her first.

“Annette is what?”

Dedue looked up at Dimitri. He appeared genuinely concerned. At the same time, Dedue recognised all the signs of his illness and exhaustion, the ones he had been trained to look for and respond to since they were young. It made him even more reluctant to admit his fears. Dedue knew how Dimitri lay awake at night and the last thing he wanted to do was to make such behaviour worse. Especially considering what he had learned during the journey to Garreg Mach.

“It is nothing, Your Majesty,” Dedue said. He stood up. “Allow me to assist you. I am here in my capacity as your retainer, after all. Can I sort these papers?”

Dimitri sat back in his chair as Dedue retrieved the pile of completed work and carried it over to the side table. There, he began to sort them according to their next destination: Felix, the council, Duke Goneril, Garreg Mach Monastery, the royal archives.

He was halfway through the pile when a letter, stamped with the king’s mark to indicate it had been read, caught his eye. He frowned and turned to Dimitri.

“What is this?” he asked, holding it up.

Dimitri was frowning heavily at his paperwork, his pen lying on the desk near his teacup. But he looked up when Dedue spoke and laughed when he saw the letter.

“Yes,” he said. “That.”

Dimitri picked up his tea and swallowed a gulp.

“It seems you are not the only person who wishes to see me married, Dedue,” he said. “According to Felix, Count Varley has made his intentions quite clear.”

Dedue’s heart sank for his friend.

“You cannot mean to consider it,” he said.

“Consider it I must,” Dimitri said, pushing his chair back from the desk and standing. “It has been a long time since I dared to dream of having a happy ending like yours. Bernadetta will only be the first candidate, I’m sure. This will open the floodgates.”

“Does Byleth…”

“No, Dedue.” Dimitri turned his back on Dedue and went to the window. He leaned against the frame as he looked out over the gardens. “Please. Please do not speak to me of her.”

Dedue obediently turned back to the side table and placed the proposal from Varley on the pile intended for the archives.

“The Kingdom will be my life’s work,” Dimitri muttered. “That will be sufficient.”

Dedue did not answer. He had served Dimitri long enough to know when he was speaking his thoughts aloud, to try and understand them, to force himself to accept them. Not for the first time, he wished there was something he could do. Something more than stand ideally by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is exactly 5000 words, making it the longest chapter yet and also oddly satisfying. It has been a beast to write and I am both excited and terrified to share it with you all now.
> 
> Thank you for the continuing encouragement on this story. I often reread the comments when I'm struggling to get the words down. They really do mean a lot.
> 
> Finally, if you feel like joining me on twitter I'm @RuneTari. Stay safe.


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